


et in arcadia ego

by quartzguts



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Animal Death, Anxiety, Codependency, Emotional Manipulation, False Identity, Family Feels, Gaslighting, Gen, Kidnapping, Subtle Suicidal Ideation, dont let the tags fool you ardyn is nice to noctis just, minor dawn of the future spoilers, not too nice yknow, semi-consistent use of fake name
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartzguts/pseuds/quartzguts
Summary: Two thousand years ago, Ardyn lost his brother.Eighteen years ago, Regis lost his son.Somnus doesn't know what he lost, exactly, but he's got his big brother Ardyn and their farm, and that's more than enough.Or: Ardyn kidnaps a two year old Noctis, renames him Somnus, and raises him as his baby brother.
Relationships: Ardyn Izunia & Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 71
Kudos: 236





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more tags to be added as the fic updates

The little prince doesn’t wake as Ardyn pets his hair. The night is in full bloom outside, spilling soft moonlight into the royal nursery. It’s so different from the chamber Ardyn and Somnus shared in their younger days, but one or two things are still the same: the toys resting haphazardly in a closed old chest; the chair by the bedside, for a maid to sit up with the prince when he’s sick. There are glow in dark stars stuck to the ceiling, expertly mimicking the forms of the constellations. Noctis shifts in his sleep, popping his thumb into his mouth.

Ardyn tosses away the blankets, humming a lullaby he hasn’t sung in ages. Somnus’s descendant looks so much like him, it’s unfair. There’s the pale skin, the black hair—and Ardyn just knows when he opens his eyes they’ll be the same dark blue. It reminds him of days long past, when he would spend night after night soothing his baby brother as his parents slept in the manor next door, eager to leave their maids and three year old son to care for the newborn.

Noctis murmurs something in his sleep and shifts over so his face is buried in the pillow. He shivers. Ardyn chuckles.

“Cold, are you?” he asks the two year old. “Fear not, little one. It’s warm where we’re going.” Carefully, without waking him, Ardyn scoops him up and carries him to the window.

In the morning, a nursemaid will enter the room and raise the alarm when she finds the prince missing. The Citadel—and the King—will be thrown into a panic. They will search every inch of the city, every nook and cranny they can find, looking for their lost prince. But they will not find him.

All they’ll find is a small note, unsigned, under his pillow. _He is safe._

And he will be safe. Ardyn will not let Noctis Lucis Caelum inherit the fate Bahamut has bestowed on him. He will never become the Chosen, will never bear the burdens of the crown. He will live simply and happily in the countryside, isolated but not alone.

And, in time, Noctis will give Ardyn his redemption. They’ll be brothers, side by side. Until they both end.

\---

The bedroom Ardyn prepared for the boy is modest, but homely. It’s much smaller than any of his rooms at the Citadel, but it’s been carefully designed and filled with everything a growing child might need. Ardyn changes Noctis into a white nightgown from the dresser, burns his black pajamas to ash, and puts him to bed. He immediately curls into a pillow and settles down, still sucking his thumb. Satisfied, Ardyn goes off to see to the rest of the farm.

When the boy wakes up several hours later, he signals his return to consciousness with incessant wailing. Ardyn is just bringing breakfast into the dining room. He hums to himself as he goes to see what the matter is.

The little prince is sitting up in bed, his big blue eyes swimming in tears. He sniffles as he catches sight of Ardyn, recoiling in fear. His hands are curled into fists.

“Oh my,” Ardyn says, keeping his voice soft and low. The prince leans forward at the sound of it. “What have we here? Did you have a nightmare, little brother?”

“Dada,” he whimpers.

“No,” Ardyn says, and he starts screaming again.

Ardyn sighs. He peers around the room, looking for something to distract his little brother from his tantrum. There’s a shelf filled with picture books, poetry collections, and fairy tales, a dresser of clothes, stuffed animals on the bed and floor, and a box under the window to hold his toys. The walls are wood, a light brown that brightens up the room. The window is shielded in yellow curtains. There’s a plush blue carpet on the floor.

And not a dash of black in sight.

Ardyn chooses a plushie off the floor, near the bed. “There, there,” he says soothingly, inching forward. He frowns at the way the prince scoots away from him.

“Are you frightened?” Ardyn asks the child. He doesn’t nod, but doesn’t shake his head, either. “Here, take this. He’s a tonberry. Do you know what that is? They’re very strong creatures. He shall protect you.”

He has to hold the plush out for a while, but eventually the boy takes it. His tears dry up as he rubs the soft green fabric over his face.

“That’s better,” Ardyn says.

The boy looks up at him again. “Where’s Dada?”

“Your father has left you with me for the time being,” he says. “I am Ardyn. We’re going to have fun together, yes?”

The boy hiccups. He squeezes the tonberry. “‘Kay.”

Ardyn smiles. “That’s a good boy, Somnus.”

“‘m Noctis,” he says.

“No.” Ardyn stands, grabbing his little brother under the arms and pulling him up. He puffs out his cheeks, confused but no longer upset. Ardyn’s heart melts. He’d forgotten how simple children are, how easily they accept the words of adults without argument. How unnatural they find manipulation and betrayal to be. “Your name is Somnus. Now, let’s get you dressed.”

\---

Somnus, the stubborn thing, keeps insisting his name is Noctis. Ardyn corrects him gently each time. That’s the key with parenting: consistency. You can’t give in just because they’re persistent about something. You have to keep firm, but kind. Ardyn never raises a hand or shouts; he simply waits for his little brother to accept that he is Somnus now, not Noctis, and will never be Noctis again.

He treats the tantrums and the nightmares and the way Somnus sometimes shies away from him, looking wary, looking _scared,_ the same way. All these little setbacks will fade with time. Ardyn just has to be patient. And if there’s anything immortal life in darkness has taught him, it’s _patience._

(He’ll stop asking after Regis, too, one day, when he gets old enough to forget he’s ever had a family other than Ardyn.)

\---

A few months later, he’s answering to his name, calling Ardyn _big brother,_ and life is a little smoother.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> added an animal death tag and warning for very minor dotf spoilers.

When Somnus turns five, Ardyn teaches him to read and write. He’s voracious, eager to devour every book in his room, asking Ardyn to read to him when there are too many words he doesn’t understand. When Somnus masters written Lucian several months ahead of schedule, Ardyn starts teaching him Ancient Solheimian; his modern tongue takes to it like a cat to water, but he’s determined and works and works until his accent fades and the words tumble off his tongue in perfect dialect.

He follows Ardyn most days as he works the farm, watching him milk and sheer the sheep, feed the garulas, and take the chocobos out to graze. He plays with the sheepdogs in the yard when they’re not working, laughing at the pair of littermates as they yip and growl. Ardyn almost resents the little freeloader, but in truth he enjoys all the work that comes with their new life. Here, they live as humans are meant to live, working for their keep, eating only the food they can raise, and using only the things they can make themselves.

With the exception of Somnus’s books, which were stolen from libraries all over Eos, everything in their farmhouse was made by Ardyn. He spent years building up the house with carpets and furniture and pillows and blankets, perfecting his pottery skills so they have the prettiest, sturdiest plates and cups, and adding on extensions to the house; as of now, they have a main sitting room, a dining area, two bedrooms, a sun room, a porch, a separate kitchen house, a bath house, an out house, and a barn for the chocobos. The sheep and garulas are kept in wide fenced areas, with small wooden overhangs built for shade. Only a few yards away from the main house is a water well.

With the mild climate and miles of untouched wilderness surrounding them, the nearby lake and rivers that feed it, the distant purple and blue mountains, the grassy valleys and hills—well, it’s not a bad place to live. Ardyn would even say it’s rather pleasant.

Somnus eventually gets bored of playing all day, and insists he start helping with meals. He mixes greens up for salads and pours their drinks as Ardyn cooks. They only grow what they need; tomatoes, potatoes, cucumbers, beans, spices, even strawberries during the few months of the year when it’s cold enough. Their wheat grows in a field adjacent to the house, and there’s a wild orchard of orange and lemon trees not far; sometimes Ardyn lets Somnus go out to pick the fruits for juice.

They stop growing carrots when Ardyn realizes Somnus hates them with a passion. His childish tastebuds seem to have evolved specifically to sniff out the little buggers; if he finds any at all on his plate, he won’t eat the rest of the food, as if it’s been tainted. Ardyn laughs, rips up the plants, and throws them to the garulas.

These three years they’ve spent on the farm feel like seconds to Ardyn; day in, day out, everything is the same peaceful, simple life he remembers from an age long past. The only difference between then and now is that he has a brother to share it with. The old Somnus was too haughty to play in the dirt, too scared of bugs to help him hunt for pests among their crops.

This one is high spirited, and always eager to help Ardyn whenever he can. He’s strangely inconsistent with his affection, staying at a comfortable distance when they sit on the couch to read together, but clinging close when Ardyn has to leave to graze the animals, crying and begging for _big brother_ not to leave him alone. The tears stop after a time, but the hugs and anxiety in his eyes stays.

Ardyn doesn’t understand it, but he’s a daemon now, and a long ways away from human emotions. It’s probably nothing.

As always, they’ll be fine.

\---

When Somnus is six, he witnesses his first death. One of their chocobos falls ill, and Ardyn is unable to heal her. He takes her out into the fields, away from the barn where the chicks are quarantined, and plans to snap her neck. He notices, just in time, that Somnus has snuck out of the house to follow him.

“Som,” he says, agitated. This is one of his favorite chocobos. He already hates to kill her, and will hate to do it even more if his baby brother is watching.

“I didn’t mean to get caught,” Somnus says sheepishly, ducking out from behind the grass. It’s tall this time of year, and yellowing, preparing to wither as the dry season comes. Somnus brushes a few stray blades off his sunhat. He comes up and kneels next to Ardyn, looking down at the diseased bird as she croons. “What are you doing?”

“She’s sick, Somnus,” Ardyn says. “I cannot heal her, and we mustn’t risk letting the disease spread to the other birds. I am sorry, but I have to kill her. Go back to the house.” 

“Why can’t I be here?” Somnus asks, brow furrowing. “I know what killing is. I’m not scared.”

Ardyn pats him on the head with a fond, tired smile. If only his little brother was less inquisitive. Life might be easier, then—but also, he thinks, less interesting. “Knowing is not the same as seeing.”

“Then I wanna see,” Somnus says, glaring up at him. “She’s my bird, too.”

“That she is,” Ardyn says, and snaps her neck.

Somnus spends the rest of the day in tears. He wails, curses Ardyn to high heaven, and, when Ardyn gently explains that he has to kill animals for their meat, too, refuses to ever eat any again. When he gets to the table that night and Ardyn presents him with a plate of veggies, he goes back on his vow and quietly asks for some garula steak. He heads off to bed still sniffling, and Ardyn, at his wits end, doesn’t follow to comfort him further.

The next morning, as Ardyn laces up his work boots and ties his hair back, Somnus greets him at the door. His little hands are clenched up in fists, his skinny legs hidden by overalls still a size too large. He stares up at Ardyn defiantly.

“I wanna help,” he says.

Ardyn considers him for a moment before saying, “you’re still too young.”

Somnus sniffles. “Yesterday was—it was—”

Ardyn waits patiently.

“—it was awful,” Somnus spits out miserably. “I know it was awful for you, too. You just didn’t show it. So I wanna help.”

An unfamiliar emotion bubbles up in Ardyn’s chest, something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time, since the first Somnus was awarded his first military position at the age of fifteen. He realizes, with some surprise, that it’s _pride._ He’s proud of this boy, overcoming his misery for the sake of another. He’s so proud he could burst.

Instead he hands the egg basket to Somnus and tells him, “go collect the chocobo’s eggs. Then come to me, and I’ll find you something else to do.”

Somnus collects the eggs—only dropping and breaking two of them total—then waters their garden, tips over a small bucket of feed into the sheep trough, dusts their porch, and feeds the pups. By the end of the day, he’s whining about his aching limbs, and falls asleep on the couch before the sun sets.

Ardyn carries him back to bed, kisses his forehead, and spends the rest of the night drawing up plans to add an addition to his room. Just so he has more space as he grows.

Ardyn expects Somnus to sleep in the next day. Instead he drags himself out of bed as the chocobos start to caw, eats breakfast cooked with the eggs he’d picked the previous day, and does it all over again.

This becomes their new routine. Life is simple, and good. Noctis— _Somnus_ —is far better off here than in that prison they call a Citadel, and Ardyn is starting to find a change in himself as well; more days than not, the scourge is quiet in his veins, and he finds himself thinking less about the cosmic struggle between light and darkness and the wrath of angry gods and more about ordinary things, like whether he should build a special pen in their barn for the chocobo chicks, or what they should have for dinner that night. It’s odd and wonderful and difficult all at once.

It’s like he’s a person again. Like Noctis is giving him back the humanity Somnus stole from him.

He almost regrets renaming the boy. Almost.

\---

The impossible happens two weeks after Somnus’s seventh birthday, which is now celebrated on the summer solstice. Ardyn wakes up feeling unusually heavy; his head is pounding, and there’s a thick layer of mucus in the back of his throat. When he tries to clear it with a cough, he spends the next several minutes hacking up phlegm onto his bedroom floor.

Somnus steps into the room warily, panicking when he sees Ardyn kneeling on the ground. Ardyn’s attempt to shush him is sabotaged by another coughing fit, which has him falling into his own spittle. Somnus is frantic, recognizing both the signs of sickness and the danger of it. Ardyn would like him to leave before he falls ill as well—if this virus is fierce enough to infect a daemon, it will no doubt do worse to a human child—but he can’t speak over the excessive soreness in his throat. Somnus struggles to push him up into bed, then runs out of the room, returning moments later with a cup of water.

Once the liquid is down his throat and he’s recovered enough to speak, Ardyn says “go and take a bath. Wash every inch of yourself. Do not come in here again, for any reason, unless I call for you.”

“But,” Somnus whimpers. “When I get sick, you always take care of me!”

“My immune system is stronger than yours. If you fall ill with this—” he breaks off into another coughing fit, throwing his head to the side and burying his mouth into the crook of his elbow. “If you fall ill with this, it shall wreak havoc on you, little brother. Now _go._ That is not a suggestion.”

Somnus wavers, but eventually makes his way to the door. He stares at Ardyn for a moment before shutting it. Minutes later, Ardyn hears the front door open and close and, further off, the bath house door clang. He sighs. Satisfied that Somnus will follow his instructions, he collapses back into bed, and falls asleep.

The next time he wakes up, it’s because there’s a knocking at his door. Ardyn’s eyes snap open, and he growls, “don’t come in.”

“I’m not, I’m not!” Somnus whines. “It’s just—I’ve fed the sheep, but now the garulas are hungry.”

Ardyn groans. He tries to sit up, back popping, but a violent wave of nausea sends him crashing back down to the bed. When he’s sure his stomach has settled enough to open his mouth without vomiting, he says, “I don’t believe I can get up to feed them today.”

Somnus leans against the door, pushing at it, but doesn’t come into the room. “Don’t worry. I’ll feed ‘em.”

He doesn’t like the idea of Somnus struggling with the heavy feed bags, but as of now, it’s the only option they’ve got. “The bags you’re looking for are out behind the barn. Drag one over to the pen and dump it into their trough. It’ll be heavier than the sheep feed, so take breaks, and don’t you dare try to carry it. When you’re done, come back and I shall tell you how to feed the chocobos.”

And so it goes. Throughout the day, Somnus comes to the door, and Ardyn tells him how to do the things he’d rather have waited to teach him—taking out the animals to graze, milking the sheep, and chopping meat for the dogs’ meals. The garden will survive without weeding for one day, and the house can handle some accumulation of dust; luckily, Ardyn had pumped extra water yesterday, so there’s no need for Somnus to struggle with the well.

Around lunchtime he offers to bring up a cup of juice, but Ardyn rejects it outright. He doesn’t feel he can stomach food right now. Not with the scourge raging war against the invading sickness in his gut.

When evening rolls around and he’s still too sick to get out of bed, Ardyn gives Somnus very careful instructions about what to do for food. He tells him to make a meal of the potatoes and cucumbers on the counter, and supplement it with cheese and bread. Ardyn makes it very clear he is not to cook any of their stored, salted meat; he’s far too young to use the wood fire oven.

Before bed, Somnus comes to the door to say goodnight. He sounds miserable. Ardyn tries placating him again, but this time his coughs bring the scourge up and out of his throat, sticky and viscous, and it’s all Ardyn can do to keep the noise down. They’re stuck like that, in horrible silence, for thirty minutes before Ardyn coughs out an order for Somnus to get to bed.

“Promise you won’t die,” Somnus says indignantly.

Ardyn has to chuckle at that. “Believe me, I shan’t.”

“Promise!” Somnus shouts, shocking Ardyn out of his coughing fit. Being of a quiet nature, it’s not often his brother yells. “Promise me, Ardyn.”

“I promise,” Ardyn says.

There’s a pause. Then Somnus says, “you better mean it,” and leaves for bed.

The next morning, Ardyn doesn’t feel any better. In fact, he might feel _worse;_ he coughs up phlegm and scourge for nearly an hour, and his breathing is labored. Somnus scrambles around the farm, trying to do everything by himself. Against Ardyn’s wishes, he opens the door for a brief second to slip a cup of juice in at lunchtime. It comes up mere minutes after Ardyn drinks it.

Damn it all. He must have picked a bug up from Gralea, where he grabbed another Solheimian history book for Somnus’s birthday present. He has medicine in the house, but he’s largely immune to its properties; the scourge has a tendency to eliminate all foreign bodies from his system, food and sickness included. Though this is a fight it will eventually win, it might take some time.

Despite Ardyn’s insistence of this fact to Somnus, using what words he can without mentioning the scourge directly, his little brother goes to bed crying again that night. And the next.

And for the rest of the week.

Already Ardyn can feel himself getting better; he can keep down a glass or two of juice, and the coughing fits are less often punctuated with scourge. Somnus doesn’t seem to believe in his improving health, though; Ardyn refuses to let him enter the bedroom, and he supposes to a child, the persistence of his cough is proof enough that he could drop dead any minute. With his brother’s mind made up, Ardyn takes to ignoring his childish outbursts of emotion, and rebuffs him when he comes to the door, begging to be let in, stopped by both Ardyn’s firm words and the lock latching the door shut.

On the ninth day, when he’s well enough to get up and walk a few steps without needing a break, Ardyn prepares to call Somnus down and tell him that he’ll be completely recovered by the next morning. The lack of snot in his nose, however, lets him smell the breeze coming in through his window. Ardyn frowns, and cracks the window open a bit more. He can hear the dogs and chocobos making a racket. There’s an acrid smell on the air, like meat cooking, or…

Or smoke.

Ardyn is out of his room so quickly, he keels over and coughs a lob of scourge up onto the carpet in the sitting room. He stumbles on his way to the front door. His hands are shaking so hard he can’t grab the handle. He throws his body against it once, twice, until the frame cracks and the door swings open, lock broken. The air outside is heavy with the smell of smoke, and a faint haze rests over the farm. The animals are screeching, scrambling to get away from the kitchen house. No flames have spread to the exterior, but the energy in the air makes what’s happening all too clear.

The oven is on fire. Ardyn’s stomach drops when he realizes he hasn’t seen Somnus anywhere.

He breaks out into a run, ignoring the dizziness and the scourge now choking his throat. His entire body grows cold despite the heat. He throws open the kitchen house door with a type of frantic madness. His little brother, small and helpless, is curled up on the floor, faintly coughing.

Ardyn scoops him up and practically throws him out the door, then returns to dump the barrel of water he keeps at the ready, just in case, over the oven. The fire was a smaller one, and goes out swiftly, but it’s quite clear their stone oven is scorched.

While he’s making sure the fire isn’t still burning in some corner, Ardyn can’t stop thinking about Somnus, worrying that he’s suffocated, that his lungs are ruined, that his face is burnt. The second he’s sure the building won’t burst into flames again immediately after he’s left, Ardyn is throwing himself out the door again, scrambling towards Somnus.

He’s sitting on the ground, dazed. There’s a layer of soot on his face. Ardyn smudges it away with his fingers. He checks every inch of Somnus for burns, then picks him up again and takes him to the well, where he draws water for him to drink. Somnus sits on the grass, hands around his knees, completely silent. He doesn’t look particularly spacey anymore, but Ardyn is concerned about oxygen deprivation and shock; he grabs Somnus’s face in his hands again and checks for the thousandth time for injuries. A little bit of healing magic escapes his fingertips, rushing into Somnus’s nostrils and mouth to eliminate any soot or ash that managed to get into his lungs. Through it all, Ardyn is unable to speak a word. The fear is too potent.

 _Fear._ An emotion he often invokes in others, but not one he is used to feeling himself.

It’s only a few minutes before Somnus comes back to himself, but it feels like hours; when his brother starts to cough and spit, taking in deeper breaths, Ardyn could cry from joy. His heart is still beating jackrabbit fast. He hugs Somnus tightly to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Somnus chokes out, his voice sore, and Ardyn _explodes._

 _“What were you thinking?!”_ he hisses, tearing Somnus away from him. The face the boy makes reminds him of the first time they met. “You stupid little thing! I’ve told you time and time again you’re too young to use the oven. What the _hell_ did you imagine you’d accomplish?”

“I—” Somnus whimpers. He struggles to get out of Ardyn’s grip, but that makes more cold panic rush through his veins, so he holds tighter. Somnus winces. “I just—”

“You just _what?_ By the blasted gods, Somnus, you could have died! If I hadn’t realized what was happening, you…” Ardyn’s voice wavers. Suddenly, he can see the way Somnus is trembling, tears running down his face, hands curled into fists. Ardyn lets go. There are red marks on his brother’s arms, in the shape of his fingers.

“I’m sorry!” Somnus shouts, and collapses to his knees. Sobs rack his body as he keels over. “I read that soup helps people who are sick, so I wanted to make you some so you’d get better! Please don’t hate me, please!”

“Somnus,” Ardyn says, horror spreading in his gut. He coughs again. The sound makes Somnus flinch. “No, Somnus, listen—”

“Don’t leave me!” Somnus screams. He launches himself back into Ardyn’s arms, breaths coming dangerously fast and shallow. “Don’t leave me, please, please!”

“Somnus, I wouldn’t—I’m not going to _leave_ you, why would you think such a thing?” Ardyn hugs Somnus tight, pressing his face into the child’s hair.

“Because if I’m a bad boy you’ll leave,” Somnus whimpers. “Please don’t, I’m sorry, I’ll be good from now on, I promise! Just don’t...” His tiny voice breaks off into sobs. What’s left of Ardyn’s heart shatters.

“Somnus, listen to me.” He repeats it several times, until Somnus calms enough that Ardyn’s murmur is louder than his crying. “I am not going to abandon you. I shall _never_ abandon you. You mean the world to me. You’re my baby brother. I couldn’t bear losing you a—” He catches himself just before he says the word “again” and calms his mind, reminding himself who he’s speaking to. “Do you understand?”

“But you were so mad,” Somnus says.

“I’m still angry.” The declaration sends Somnus into another fit. It takes Ardyn ages to calm him down. “Hush, now, and listen. I’m still angry, but only because you put yourself in danger. Don’t do this again, alright?”

Somnus sniffles. “I was just trying to help.”

“I know.” Ardyn picks him up. There’s a symmetry about this that’s making him wary, that keeps his body frozen like stone as he stares out at the horizon, jaw set. A person trying to make something better and, instead, making it _worse._

(The plague spreading, faster than Ardyn could heal, and he turned and ran because he couldn’t bear to be told he couldn’t save those people; it was his duty to heal, his _blessing,_ his _gods-damned honor—_

gods above and hells below, what did he do to this child when he tore him away from his home and family? What did he _do?_ )

“It’s alright, Somnus,” Ardyn says. His voice is hollow, but Noctis Lucis Caelum calms at the sound of it. A drop of scourge falls from Ardyn’s mouth, mixing with the soot in the prince’s hair. “It’s all going to be alright.”

\---

(When they make it back to the house and Somnus sees the scourge on the floor, then notices it on Ardyn’s face, he asks what it is. Ardyn tells him it’s phlegm, and cleans it up himself. That night, he stays by Somnus’s bedside, holding the child’s hand. Checking to see if claws will grow.

None do. His brother is free of the scourge. He’s safe.

But for how long?)


	3. Chapter 3

Somnus never forgets that day. He still remembers the flames and smoke, Ardyn’s furious expression, his _anger_ , years later. The images shift and slither in his nightmares, waking him with a gasp each time the imaginary smoke chokes his lungs. Though Somnus never again sees Ardyn that angry, he still peers at his older brother from the corner of his eye when he’s in trouble, watching for those black-gold eyes to appear. Somnus has long since realized that the black sclera he thought he saw must have been a film from the smoke, but the memory of it still makes him shiver.

He tries his best to be a careful, obedient little brother over the next ten years. He studies every book Ardyn gives him, never complains about his chores, and pulls his own weight as best he can. Slowly, each passing year melts into the rest, marked only by the occasional wardrobe replacement and hair cut. He thinks about growing his hair out every now and then, but he doesn’t think it would look as nice as Ardyn’s. His hair is straight and fairly boring, hanging over his eyes flatly when he’s gone too many months without a cut. He wishes it was curlier and red, like Ardyn’s.

Those are the little things that bother him; Ardyn’s hair, the road beyond the mountains, the travelers that pass through the fields from time to time. Usually Ardyn invites them in for a drink and a meal before they continue on their way. Some of them, his brother refuses to host; those people are dressed in head to toe black, with elaborately decorated capes and weapons strapped to their sides. Each time they appear, scarcely as it may be, Somnus knows to run back into the house and hide. They’re Lucian soldiers, Ardyn has told him, and dangerous. They’re liable to kill anyone who looks at them the wrong way.

Their clothes make Somnus feel strange, too. Uncomfortable. The black is deeper and darker than anything else in the valley. He hates looking at it.

For the most part, things are quiet and peaceful. Somnus grows up strong alongside the animals and crops. When he turns thirteen, Ardyn teaches him to slaughter a chocobo, then a garula, and finally how to kill the dogs that are getting too old to work. He manages not to cry until he goes to bed, but wakes up the next morning refreshed. The blood staining his hands is proof that he’s an adult now, and that Ardyn trusts him to handle the most distressing part of the work. That’s all Somnus wants; to be useful. 

To be wanted.

He does whatever he can to make Ardyn proud of him. The older he gets, the more intense his studies become; no longer is he simply learning which plants in the forest are edible, or how to tie a sturdy knot. Ardyn coaches him on mathematics, science, literature, history, politics, military strategy—topics he’d never even thought about before. He does his chores in the morning and studies in the afternoon, sometimes late into the evening, using the light of a candle to read. Ardyn tests him on what he’s learned through debate; they can go for hours, yelling at each other across the fields.

Somnus likes it. He doesn’t understand why a farmer would need to know these kinds of things, but it makes him feel smart and productive. It keeps his brain fit.

By the time Somnus is seventeen, his curriculum is noticeably slowing down. Ardyn doesn’t bring him new reading material as often, and Somnus gets a full night’s sleep for the first time in years. He can handle the farm by himself just fine, can do arithmetic in his head, and has read everything in his library twice. Really, the only thing Somnus _hasn’t_ learned is what the outside world is really like.

So he probably shouldn’t be surprised when Ardyn hands him a bag packed full of his nicest clothes one afternoon, and tells him they’re taking a trip.

Somnus can barely contain his excitement—nervousness? fear?—as they head off the farm. The animals have been fed, and will be fine for a day without them, but that’s not really the cause of his worry. There’s something both exhilarating and daunting about the idea of being in the presence of other people. And not just one or two wanderers; an entire _city’s_ worth, _thousands_ of souls all crammed into a space only about as big as the valley. He’s seen pictures, but he doesn’t know if the air will taste different, if the colors will be the same, if the people will be anything like him and Ardyn. On the one hand, Somnus thinks city folk _should_ be kind and cooperative from living in such a large community. On the other, learning about countless wars throughout the history of Eos have made him cautious of places where too many humans gather in one place.

Populations need resources, and to get resources, they resort to war. Ardyn assures him that Lestallum (once a small town in Cleigne, founded 397 M.E., now grown into a metropolis to accommodate the boom in business following the opening of the EXINERS powerplant—all information Somnus learned from a collection of books about the history of Lucis, their country) is perfectly safe. Somnus pointedly looks at the dagger strapped to his belt, and crosses his arms.

“Mostly safe, then,” Ardyn amends, looking completely unapologetic. “Better to be prepared than caught unawares, yes?”

They hike through the valley and forest, up to the place where the mountains break apart and permit a narrow pass to exist between them. The road is the only convenient way in and out of the valley. Somnus has been near it before, but has never passed through. The high walls of purple rock climbing into the sky seem to glare down at him in judgement. Somnus shivers and tightens his grip on his bag, uncomfortable with something so large looming over him. Ardyn pats his shoulder as they walk, but otherwise doesn’t chide him for his jumpiness.

They reach the road after only thirty minutes of walking, then follow it until they get to an outpost. The people around are more or less what Somnus is used to, dressed in leathers with wide sun hats. Somnus waves and smiles, but mostly keeps to himself as Ardyn rents them a car.

“Is there anything you’d like to purchase while we’re here?” Ardyn asks when he returns, twirling the keys around on his finger. “It’ll be a fair drive. You might want a snack.”

Somnus looks at the bags of brightly colored plastic in the store window and grimaces. “I think I’m good.”

“Picky,” Ardyn chides.

Somnus climbs into the passenger seat of the car Ardyn selected—sleek red with a white stripe down the hood. It’s his first time ever in a car. The seats smell pleasant, like leather and pine, and despite his initial shock at the engine’s rumbling, it soon fades into a pleasant hum in the background.

“Didn’t you get enough to sleep last night?” Ardyn asks when Somnus’s head lolls for the third time.

“You know me. I can crash anywhere.” Somnus yawns. “So, what’s all this for?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Somnus punches Ardyn in the shoulder. “I mean, why go to the city? I get that reading about something and seeing it aren’t the same thing, but…”

Ardyn purses his lips. His expression takes on the guarded quality Somnus has always hated. “You need to learn about the world. It’s necessary for your future.”

His tone suggests that there is to be no further argument. Somnus sighs, looks out to the green horizon dotted with the silver shine of grain silos, and falls asleep.

\---

Ardyn wakes him when they get to Lestallum. The first thing Somnus does is clamp his hands over his nose in disgust.

“What’s that _smell?”_ he asks, voice muffled.

Ardyn chuckles. “That, my dear boy, is the perfume of civilization; sweat, gas, rat droppings, and trash. Now, shall we get going?”

The city colors are duller than the countryside, the air hotter, and the noise incomparably louder, but the moment Somnus steps foot on the sidewalk he decides he loves it. It’s so _new,_ so _different_. Everything has him turning his head to look; brightly colored clothes emblazoned with logos and art, restaurants and food carts serving things Somnus doesn’t recognize, flower beds with species he’s only seen in books. Ardyn trails behind him as Somnus treks through the city, taking it all in. He notices, after a while, that people are staring at him; some chuckle, others smirk, dragging their eyes over his body. He must look strange, wearing blue jeans, a rough flannel shirt, and mud covered boots. The eyes on him make him shudder.

“Are you alright?” Ardyn asks, catching up to him when Somnus trails to a stop.

“Can we go somewhere else?” he asks. The street seems to constrict around him. His skin is sweltering with so many other warm bodies nearby. “Preferably where it’s less crowded?”

Ardyn takes his wrist and pulls him away, down a set of stairs and through a few narrow alleys. They come out to a small balcony where the road stops and faces the grove outside the city limits. A huge white pole supporting the cable cars stands in the distance, with another even further away. Somnus inhales and immediately notices that the air tastes cleaner. They sit on the edge of the city in silence while Somnus catches his breath.

“Forgive me. I should have known it would be too much to take in all at once.”

“Maybe we can go out again at night,” Somnus says. “It’ll be quieter then. The electric lights will still be on, right?”

“I’m afraid Lestallum only grows rowdier at night,” Ardyn says. He laughs at Somnus’s appalled expression. “It’s true! The people here work all day to earn their keep. At night, they like to take time to relax.”

“By drinking?” Somnus guesses.

“Indeed.”

He kicks his boots back against the stone. “I wonder what being drunk feels like.”

“It would be unbecoming for you to fall intoxicated.” Ardyn ruffles Somnus’s hair. “No doubt you’re a light weight.”

“Only because _you_ never let me try to make blackberry wine.”

“You were fourteen, and likely would have poisoned yourself.”

Somnus sticks out his tongue. Ardyn touches it with a finger, and Somnus sputters, leaning back. “You’re gross.”

“I’m your brother. Being gross is in the job description.”

They watch the horizon for a while longer. They have a decent view of the road from here, and Ardyn points out the cars driving along it, naming the make and year. Occasionally he’ll comment on how classic and pretty one of them looks. Somnus has to admit, the machines do look nice. They’re sleek and shiny, and the engine’s sound is relaxing. He doesn’t like how hot the exterior gets under the sun, though.

Once Somnus is feeling fully recovered, they go back into the city. Ardyn shows him around a few shops, and buys him some ‘modern’ clothes. Somnus has no idea where he got the currency from, but his brother has a tendency to pull things out of no where, so he doesn’t ask. They try something called ‘iced cream,’ which quickly becomes Somnus’s new favorite food, and ‘chocolate,’ which is even better. Eventually, Ardyn lets him in on the fact that the people staring at him likely find him attractive—Somnus doesn’t know whether to feel flattered or embarrassed.

The sun starts setting only a few hours later. “Shall we find a place to stay?” Ardyn asks.

Somnus tries not to look _too_ tired. “Are we going to a hotel?”

“Indeed. Follow me.”

They weave back through the streets, taking narrow, empty alleys to avoid the crowds out on the main road. The hotel they come to is nice; the interior is plush and mostly red and green, and it’s blessedly cool inside. The receptionist smiles at them, though it’s a bit strained.

“We smell, don’t we?” Somnus whispers to Ardyn as they climb the stairs to get to their room.

“Correction. _You_ smell.”

Somnus _hmphs_. Ardyn unlocks the door to their room. It’s surprisingly underwhelming; nothing is particularly new to Somnus, except for the kitchen. He’s startled to see it as part of the room, with only the change from carpet to tile indicating where the bedroom ends.

Ardyn must notice his confusion. “The stove is gas, not open flame. It’s perfectly safe for it to be inside the building.”

“If you say so,” Somnus mutters, still eyeing it warily.

As Ardyn said it would, the city only gets louder after the sun sets. Every few minutes a group of people wander through the alleyway below their window, shouting and laughing. Somnus can hear at least three different songs playing simultaneously from nearby bars. He grumbles and yanks his pillow over his head.

A delicate _clink_ makes him look up. A steaming cup of tea sits on the nightstand. Somnus isn’t particularly thirsty, but he isn’t about to push away something his brother made for him.

“Are you alright?” Ardyn asks as he sips at the cup. “You seem agitated.”

Somnus lets the tea linger in his mouth for a bit, burning his tongue. A group of women passing below their window laugh abruptly—he jolts, nearly spilling his cup. “Do other people really live like this?”

“They do,” Ardyn answers. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed.

“It’s nice and all, but it’s just so _loud_. How do people even sleep? And it smells—ugh.” Somnus wrinkles up his nose. “The power plant alone smells worse than the compost pile.”

Ardyn laughs. “Many of the natives of this city would say our chocobo barn smells worse.”

“What?” Somnus says incredulously. “Chocobos smell good, though!”

“It’s all a matter of subjectivity,” Ardyn says. “People like what they’re used to.”

There’s a lull in the conversation. The rural countryside is quiet in the evening, with only the soft trill of crickets cutting through the night air. Lestallum’s twilight, by comparison, is a cacophony of sound; drunks shouting at each other and car horns honking impatiently, dogs howling and cats fighting in the alleyways. Somnus taps his blunt nails against the teacup. “Is that a bad thing? People liking what they’re used to, I mean.”

“I think not. What you’re used to is comfortable. It feels safe. You simply must ensure you’re not judging others for the way _they_ choose to live.”

“Okay,” Somnus says. “That’s good to know.” He finishes off his tea in one big gulp, and throws his arms around Ardyn briefly. “I’m grateful and all for the trip, but can we go home tomorrow?”

There’s a pause. “If you like. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay longer? See how fast you adjust to the city?”

“I’m sure.”

“Very well then. We shall leave at dawn.”

Ardyn produces a pair of earmuffs for Somnus to use. He flops down on the bed furthest from the window, clenches his eyes shut, and tries to block out the artificial light streaming in. Being in this place is making him feel off-kilter. It’s not just that the environment is the exact opposite of what he’s used to, lacking wilderness and containing an excess of people. It’s the fact that the city reminds him of the uncomfortable feeling that always sits deep in his chest, the one he tries to avoid.

The one that makes him dream about pitch black oil dripping from Ardyn’s mouth and voices he never remembers when he wakes up _._

Ardyn doesn’t sleep. Somnus knows it because he can hear his shallow breathing from across the room. Somnus curls into himself and presses the muffs into his ears, hoping he doesn’t dream tonight.

\---

They leave for home early the next day. Somnus spends most of his time in the car sleeping, and by the time they get to the outpost, it feels like no time has passed at all. The mountains and valley look smaller than Somnus remembers them being. Maybe that’s just because he’s seen for himself now that the rest of the world is much, much larger.

Ardyn is unusually quiet. Somnus tries not to let it bother him, and offers to take all his chores for the morning. Ardyn agrees and ducks into the house without another word. As Somnus goes around feeding the birds and harvesting eggs, he repeats to himself, _everything is fine, everything is fine, nothing is going to happen. Stop worrying. You’re okay._

_You’re okay as long as you have your big brother._

He finishes his chores more quickly than normal, admittedly owing to some shoddy work, picks a basket of oranges for fresh juice, and returns to the house. Ardyn is sitting at the dining table, hands folded in front of his face. Somnus frowns. His brother isn’t one to be quiet, or indecisive. He goes about squeezing the fruit into two cups, trying to ignore the cloud of gloom hanging over them.

“Somnus,” Ardyn says when he sets one cup down in front of him. “I need to speak with you regarding something very important.”

“...okay,” Somnus says. When Ardyn doesn’t say anything else for the next several minutes, he adds a nervous, “what is it?”

“There are things which I have neglected to tell you.” Ardyn averts his eyes. The world stands still. “Things about your origins.”

“What… what ‘things’?”

Ardyn shakes his head. “In a moment. For now, I believe it is best that you and I take another trip. We shall set off for Insomnia first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll finish up the farming, so don’t worry about any of it. You should spend your last day here doing whatever you like.”

Somnus’s grip on his cup tightens. The surface of the juice ripples as his fingers shake. “What do you mean my _last day here?_ Why are we going to the capital?”

“Somnus—”

_“Answer me.”_

The look Ardyn gives him is one of pure misery. “I think it’s time you left this place. Permanently.”

If he says anything else, Somnus doesn’t hear it. The cup falls from his hands. Juice splashes over the floor. Somnus can’t hear anything but static, can’t see anything but white, can’t think anything but _he’s abandoning me._

In an instant, he crashes back into himself, and snarls at Ardyn with a fury he’s never known before. “You’re _getting rid_ of me? Why?!” Somnus shouts. Ardyn startles out of his seat, eyes darting between Somnus and the cup on the floor. “What did I do wrong?!”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Ardyn says, holding his hands up. “Now, come sit on the couch, and listen a moment.”

“Don’t lie!” Somnus yells, throwing his hands up. He starts pacing. His vision flashes blue, spots of white crackling at the edges. “Is this because I broke the water pump last week? But I fixed it, so why— _why_ —”

“I already told you, you haven’t done anything wrong, child. This is simply something that has to be done.”

The words land like bullets on Somnus’s chest. “What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?” He whirls around. He can feel the tears tracking warm rivers down his cheeks, but can’t for the life of him remember when he started crying. “What, did you just get tired of me or something? You’re done dealing with your stupid, useless little brother?!”

“Somnus,” Ardyn chokes.

“I…” The tears bubble up so much Somnus can’t even see. His entire body feels like it’s being burned, skin eroding away, leaving only painful nerve endings behind. His heart must have burst by now and slid down into his stomach, where it’s being eaten by acid. “I try so hard, all the time. I just… I love you _so much,_ and I’m so grateful, because you’ve given me _everything._ I just want to make it up to you. Don’t you get it? I rely on you. You’re…” Somnus’s hands clench into fists. He finally closes his eyes, unable to bear looking at his life falling apart anymore. “You’re my big brother.”

For a moment, Somnus doesn’t register rough fabric pressing against his cheek. One he realizes it’s Ardyn’s scratchy jacket, he buries his face into the lapel, smearing snot and tears over it. The lullaby Ardyn is humming is one he hasn’t heard in ages. Somnus clings to his brother’s shoulders and wheezes, trying to remember how to breathe.

“I thought you would be able to handle this, now that you’re a young man,” Ardyn says, horrified. “I never imagined you would still feel this way.”

Slowly, as if emerging from under water, Somnus’s hearing returns. “Please. I don’t want to go somewhere I don’t know and live a life I don’t recognize, and I definitely don’t want to do it _alone._ Please let me stay.”

Ardyn sighs. “You may come to regret this, in time.”

“I’d never,” Somnus swears. He glances up shyly. He feels like a child again. “Unless you don’t want me to stay.”

“Of course I want you to stay.” Ardyn smoothes back the bangs from his face. Somnus thinks, almost hysterically, that it’s about time for another haircut. “As you rely on me, I rely on you. I adore you, little one.”

Somnus collapses in his arms, finally able to breathe. They stand like that for a long time, just listening to each other’s hearts beat. Somnus stops shaking long before Ardyn does. He listens closely to the murmurs his brother lets out as the sun peaks in the sky.

“I’m so sorry, little prince,” Ardyn whispers. “But I swear, I shall use all my might to protect you. Whatever you want, you shall have it. Whatever makes you happy. I’ll not let them take you away from me.”

 _That goes for both of us,_ Somnus thinks. As he nestles under Ardyn’s chin, eyes shut, he swears whoever ‘they’ are that frighten Ardyn so, Somnus will destroy them. He has debts to repay, and a home to protect. A family.

It’s a small one, but it’s all he’ll ever need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took FOREVER!! i ended up having to rewrite all of it.... hopefully chapter 3 won't take as long ^^'


	4. Chapter 4

The day after Ardyn tries to get rid of him, Somnus wakes up feeling sick to his stomach. He’s still reeling, his mind racing with the possibility that Ardyn was lying, that he actually _does_ want him gone. He checks every inch of his room carefully, to make sure Ardyn hasn’t moved anything out in the dead of night. Then he drags himself down to the living room, his eyes weighed down with the remains of a fitful sleep. His stomach turns to a pit of ice when he sees Ardyn isn’t in the house.

The rational part of him chimes that it’s around breakfast time, so he’s probably in the kitchen house. Somnus’s mouth remains dry as the desert as he goes to check, his feet wet from the dewy grass, all the way until he swings open the door and finds Ardyn standing over the stove, cooking a spread of garula bacon and eggs.

Somnus’s worries are soothed at the sight of him, the smell of sizzling meat, and the sound of the dogs playing outside. He sneaks up behind Ardyn, treading as lightly as he can. Ardyn hums, ignoring him. When Somnus is right behind him, he pounces, throwing his arms around his big brother with a shout.

As usual, Ardyn doesn’t even react. “Good morning, little brother. Did you sleep alright?”

Somnus snorts. “You could humor me every once in a while, you know.”

“I could,” Ardyn agrees. He taps the stove top with his spatula. “Be a dear and set the table, would you?”

Somnus sighs, but leaves to do as he asks. He sets the cups and plates as quickly as he can in the dining room, then runs back to the kitchen house to grab the eggs and bacon as Ardyn takes to cleaning the pans. Breakfast is served with glasses of fresh milk and juice. Somnus watches Ardyn closely throughout the meal, checking for any sign of deceit. Ardyn manages to tolerate it until the end of breakfast, when Somnus grabs the plates from him and takes them outside, washing them with more zeal than is probably necessary.

“Any particular reason you’re in such a rush?” Ardyn asks, having followed him out. He leans against the wall with a familiar inquisitive look. Somnus slows in his scrubbing, trying to make it look more casual. His chest is a melting pot of emotion, his heart clenching with stress whenever Ardyn is silent, and slowing to a soft, gentle tempo when he speaks.

He doesn’t know how to explain the feeling, so he keeps scrubbing and drying, over and over until the plates and cups are clean. Then he takes them inside and puts them away, wiping up the dinner table as he goes, even though it’s perfectly clean already. Ardyn sighs and walks up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Som,” he says. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Nothing,” Somnus says.

Ardyn huffs. “ _Somnus Izunia._ The truth, if you would.”

“You want to get rid of me,” Somnus accuses. “I’m not good enough, and you want to get rid of me for it.”

“I thought we went over this last night,” Ardyn says helplessly. Somnus grips the edge of the table so fiercely his knuckles turn white. “Somnus. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he turns around. In the pale orange light filtering in through their dining room window, Ardyn’s hair looks bloody red.

“I do not want to get rid of you,” Ardyn says, placing both hands on Somnus’s shoulders. “You are the most precious thing in the world to me, little brother. I’d fight off armies, nay, entire _nations_ to keep you safe at my side. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Somnus answers, because he does. He’d do the same for Ardyn. “I do.”

“Good.” The sheep bay, answered by the new sheepdog’s bark. They must be eager to go out and graze. Ardyn chuckles. “Now, you’ve been very helpful as of late, and you’ve more or less completed your studies. I believe we should do something special for dinner tonight, to celebrate. Why don’t you go down to the lake today to catch some fish?”

The rare opportunity to indulge in his favorite pastime is almost enough to overcome his suspicion. Almost. “You won’t leave while I’m gone?”

“Only to take the sheep out,” Ardyn jokes. He caves when Somnus pouts. “Why should I leave? This is my homestead. All our animals are here, our crops, everything I’ve amassed in the past fifteen years. And beyond all of that, _you_ are here.” Somnus’s chest warms at his gentle smile. “I shan't leave you, little brother. If nothing else, be certain of that.”

“Okay,” Somnus says, his fears finally smoothed away. “I’ll catch something big for dinner, promise.”

“I expect nothing less.”

They part for the day’s work as the sun rises over the fields.

\---

Keeping to his oath is more difficult than Somnus expected it to be. The pond is near empty today. All the fish are avoiding the hot sun by sticking to the lakebed, it seems. The water is crystalline blue, flickering with blinding light as it reflects the sunlight. Somnus tries to keep his gaze on the pond lilies, pleasantly blue-green with pretty pink and yellow flowers, but the sun keeps stubbornly flashing in his eyes.

Sweat runs down his neck as he sits at the edge of the lake, bored out of his mind. The anxiousness from earlier is still buried in his gut, and though Ardyn had assured him he wasn’t going to throw him away, he still worries that failing to bring home something for dinner will make him angry. He only vaguely remembers the time Ardyn yelled at him, _hurt_ him, and though it hasn’t happened since, the lingering fear never really dissipated.

Somnus sighs, reeling in his line yet again. The sun has risen to its highest point in the sky, and if he stays out much longer it’ll only be a matter of time before he gets heatstroke. He peers around the pond, checking for any animals he might be able to catch and bring home instead. There are a few deer stepping carefully through the underbrush, seeking shade under the wide canopy of the oak forest, but those will be too hard to take down without a weapon. He doesn’t see any rabbits or ducks, so he stops looking and turns back to the pond.

The water is cool between his fingers as he scoops it up with both hands, taking long, thankful drinks. It’s so nice, Somnus ends up putting both of his hands under the water. Then pouring it over his forehead. Then kicking off his boots and jumping in.

A scant number of fish scatter when he plunges down among them. The thought that he might be able to catch one with his bare hands comes to mind, but the fish move far too fast and are much too slippery for human hands to grasp. Somnus swims further into the lake’s center, careful to avoid getting his feet trapped in any of the plants swaying in the waves. The water is an endless void of dark blue, split only by the faint rays of sun that manage to cut through to the lakebed. Somnus has always loved it: this deep color that seems to contain all the mysteries of the world in its depths.

Something catches his eye—a scant glint of crystal half buried in the sand—and he swims down towards it. The lakebed seems farther away than he’d thought. By the time his hand disturbs the sand to grasp the shining crystal, his lungs are burning with the need for air.

The crystal is much larger than it appeared at first, a bright blue that seems to glow. It’s buried deep in the sand, and Somnus tugs on it, trying to put it loose; his hands slip off the cool edges, cutting into his palms. Blood clouds the water. Somnus yanks his hand away, checking the damage.

The danger isn’t immediately transparent, but drowning is like that—it comes up on you quickly, hearkened by the sudden panic of realizing your lungs are empty. Somnus gasps instinctively, lakewater filling his mouth and throat, and kicks up as hard as he can towards the surface. He gets turned around somehow, confused by the light on the surface of the waves and the bubbles made from his own frantic kicking. His mouth opens again, inviting another rush of water in, and—

He breathes.

Somnus sputters, taking in short, wheezing breathes. He must be hallucinating. The water has spread to form an orb of air around his head, so his mouth and nose are free to breathe. He spits up lakewater. The fish surrounding him stare at the sudden distortion with beady eyes.

Not knowing what else to do, Somnus kicks, and swims up to the surface.

When the bubble providing him air meets the surface, it pops, and the water rushes back around his chin. Somnus spends a few more minutes coughing as he breathes in the fresh afternoon air, then, with burning limbs, swims to the nearest shore.

The pebbles scratch his arms as he drags himself up, spitting out the stray droplets of water still gathered in his mouth. He stares back at the lake, innocent and unassuming as always. There’s nothing to suggest an explanation for what happened. Somnus stumbles to his feet, feeling tired beyond exhaustion, and goes back to the house without stopping to grab his fishing rod. The hand he used to touch the crystal is tingling, twitching with some sort of power. When Somnus raises it to rub aside the blood, the cut has disappeared.

\---

Ardyn’s first response to Somnus stepping into the house soaking wet is to laugh. His second, when he sees the blood streaked down his palm, partially washed away by the water, is to panic.

He grabs his little brother’s wrist and examines his hand, finding only a scant bit of blood and no open wounds. He checks his arm, and then his shoulder, until Somnus pushes at his hands and scoffs.

“I’m fine,” he says, “don’t worry.”

“Is this from a fish, then?” Ardyn asks, grabbing Somnus’s face to check his eyes. When he’s satisfied, he sits him down and goes to fetch a towel to dry his hair with. Somnus pouts, but gives in and lets Ardyn manhandle him.

“No,” he says. “Nothing was biting today. Sorry I couldn’t catch us dinner.”

“What are you talking about, child? Don’t worry about such things.” Ardyn combs Somnus’s tangled hair out as he dries it. “Were you hurt?”

“Yeah, but—” Somnus looks at his palm, staring at it with the same kind of intense scrutiny he uses to memorize language. Ardyn waits, stomach sinking; he already has an idea of what this is about. “I tried to pull this crystal out of the lakebed, but I cut my palm on it. Then this—this air bubble formed around my head, and I could breathe again, and when I got to the surface the cut had disappeared.” He laughs. “Sounds crazy, right?”

Ardyn resists the urge to put his head in his hands and sigh. This boy will be the death of him some day, both literally and figuratively. He sits on the couch and throws an arm around Somnus’s shoulders. “Not quite so.”

“Huh?” Somnus’s brow furrows. “How does that not sound crazy? I mean, I was probably just hallucinating from the lack of oxygen or… or something. Right?”

After all this time, Somnus still defers to Ardyn to tell him what’s truth and what’s false. Maybe it’s because Ardyn has always been Somnus’s teacher. Or maybe it’s because of all the things Ardyn told him when he was a child, molding his memory until it suited Ardyn’s purposes.

Maybe Somnus doesn’t trust his own perception anymore.

Ardyn swallows down the uncomfortable thought and forces a smile. “Seeing is believing, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Somnus says stubbornly.

Ardyn scuffs him on the head. “What you found was likely an elemental deposit. They are naturally growing crystals imbued with the spirit of Eos herself. From them, it is possible for… ah, _certain individuals_ to draw energy and perform magic.”

Somnus’s eyes widen. “Magic?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I just did? Magic?”

“I believe I just said so.”

The energy in the room bursts in time with Somnus’s sudden excitement. Ardyn places a small dampening spell down, only to stop his brother from inadvertently creating a tornado and destroying their home. “Magic!” Somnus yells, jumping to his feet. He seems to have completely forgotten how soaked he is; he flings droplets of water everywhere as he paces. “That’s so cool!”

“If you like, I could teach you to harness such powers intentionally—”

“ _What?_ ” Somnus breathes, and Ardyn’s chest tightens a bit at how utterly elated he looks. “You can do it, too?”

Instead of answering, Ardyn summons a spark of fire to his fingertips. Somnus steps a bit back from the open flame, but his grin stays in place.

“Teach me,” he says, and Ardyn does just that.

\---

It’s not until a few weeks later that Somnus thinks to ask _why_ Ardyn kept his magic a secret. The question has Ardyn freezing, throat tightening with the sudden and inexplicable panic associated with telling a lie. As a practiced manipulator, it is not a feeling Ardyn is well acquainted with. He can’t even parse out the reason for the panic; Somnus will believe him, not matter what he says. Perhaps that, in itself, is the problem.

“I was afraid you’d hurt yourself if you attempted to use magic as a child,” he says, voice strangled.

Somnus frowns. “You could’ve taught me to use it safely.”

Ardyn’s throat dries up. “I…”

“And you never used your magic around me, either.”

“That is… you see, I simply…”

Somnus shuffles from foot to foot. Ardyn doesn’t recognize his expression. “Is this about the things you ‘neglected to tell me’?”

He can’t lie. Not this time. “Yes.”

Somnus sucks in a short breath through his teeth. He meets Ardyn’s eyes. “It’s something unpleasant, isn’t it.”

Ardyn nods.

“I don’t want to know, then,” Somnus says. He hugs Ardyn goodnight, and goes to his room without another word.

Ardyn sits in the living room with their sheepdogs for the rest of the night, head in his hands. He revises his plans a hundred times. A thousand times.

They never end any differently.

\---

By the time Somnus is nineteen, he’s gotten most of the elemental magic down. Ardyn says there are other things to learn—teleportation, vanishing and summoning things from thin air—but Somnus can’t imagine those will be better than breathing underwater or lighting the stove with a snap of his fingers.

He’s not supposed to do any magic without Ardyn supervising. It’s a safety thing; if Somnus accidentally lights himself on fire, he needs someone there to put it out.

But, well, Somnus has never disobeyed Ardyn before. And what his big brother doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

After he finishes his chores, before the sun gets too low, Somnus heads for the fields. He wants to see what his lightning magic will look like at dusk—the sparkles of it are already beautiful during the day, little crackles of yellow energy sparking from his fingertips, and he can’t imagine how pretty they’ll be lighting up the sky while the sun sinks below the horizon.

It’s too risky to create lightning in the woods, where it might catch the trees on fire, so he plans to go out past the wheat field into the valley. The grass that grows there only comes up to the knees, and it’s open space for miles around. There won’t be much risk of Somnus lighting anything up.

By the time he reaches the valley, the sun is low behind the mountains, and the sky is a mixture of purple and orange. The brightest of the stars wink behind pink clouds. A light breeze brushes across the grass, making Somnus shiver as it passes through his shirt. He takes a deep breath, holds out his hands, and draws on the power he’d borrowed earlier.

The giddiness and fear of doing something he’s not supposed to makes Somnus laugh. The lightning buzzes gently around him in a circle, yellow flashes that burst and fizzle in the dark. Somnus gasps, then laughs, a strange sense of peace overcoming him. It’s hard for him to feel fully at ease without Ardyn around, but here, alone in the grass as the sun sets and power sings in a chorus he’s conducting, he feels perfectly safe. Content. The breeze comes again, tickling through his clothes. Somnus closes his eyes and smiles.

It’s only out here, alone, that he can really _think._ He often feels like he’s forgetting things, like there’s something important he doesn’t remember anymore. He’s learned to live with that part of himself; there’s a piece missing, or a piece misplaced, but it’s an old, old wound. He can’t find the shape of it in his heart anymore. Surely if it were something of greater importance, Somnus would have remembered, even if he was a child when it happened.

“As long as we’re together, we can get through anything,” Somnus murmurs. “Who cares if something bad happened a long time ago? The past is the past. This is now.”

The lightning stops flowing. He can feel the energy core inside him constrict, having poured out the last drop of magic it had to offer. Somnus’s hands fall to his knees as he struggles to stay standing. Sweat runs down his forehead. He could use more endurance training, but for the moment that it lasted, the lightning had been beautiful.

Over the sound of his heavy breathes, the grass shifts. Somnus’s eyes grow wide. He’s suddenly keenly aware of the fact that the sun has set, it’s pitch black, and he’s far from home.

He glances over his shoulder slowly, careful not to startle the creature if it ends up being aggressive. A coeurl will give chase if he runs, and a cockatrice will peck open a hole in his skull. He has to be careful. Careful, and quiet.

It doesn’t matter. The form approaching him is human.

Somnus doesn’t see a point in pretending he hasn’t seen them. He draws up as nonchalantly as he can, mentally checking all the possible escape routes. There really aren’t any—it’s open valley all around them—but if he runs for the woods, he could perhaps hide behind a boulder, or in a rotted log.

The person, a man by the looks of it, holds up a hand and shouts, “hey! Mind giving a poor lost photographer some directions?”

Somnus frowns, thinking. He’s been taught to be hospitable and kind to strangers. But he’s also been with Ardyn every time he’s met one. Sure, no one’s ever been violent before, but with him out here alone, at dusk? It’s a risky situation.

He takes one step back when the man gets a little too close, and studies him. He has blonde hair all spiked up in different directions, and his clothes are horribly unsuited to the terrain; there’s already grass stains on his pants, and no doubt that sleeveless tank is giving him quite a chill. At least they’re not black. Somnus tugs at his own shirt, with its long, plaid sleeves, and frowns.

“Uh, is that a no?” the guy asks.

“Depends.” Somnus folds his arms. “Can you pay?”

“Um. For what?”

“Directions.”

The expression on the guy’s face is pure hilarity; his mouth spreads out into a thin line, like a frog’s, and his blue eyes droop. Somnus can’t help the bubble of laughter that spills out of his throat.

“Wait—were you messing with me? Dude! Not cool.”

Somnus can’t stop laughing. He doubles over, his body wracked with giggles. What is this guy _saying?_ The way he talks is ridiculous. ‘Dude?’ And what the hell, _of course_ the temperature is cool.

The stranger lets out a chuckle, too. “Okay, okay, I admit it, that was a good one. Name’s Prompto.” He holds out a hand. “What’s yours?”

It takes Somnus a moment to remember he’s supposed to shake it. “Somnus. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Prompto grins. “So, uh, directions?”

As it turns out, Prompto has gotten lost in the valley and, with clouds settling over the horizon, can no longer figure out where the mountains are. Somnus points out the correct direction. He means to go home then, as it’s only a matter of time before Ardyn notices he’s missing, but Prompto is so cheerful and seemingly helpless that he feels an instinctual need to escort the guy. Somnus leads him through the woods, towards the pass hidden in the mountains.

“I don’t know how I lost track of so much time,” Prompto says as they walk. He’s chatty, which is good, because Somnus has no idea how to talk to someone without Ardyn leading the conversation. “First thing I know I was taking pictures, the next minute, boom! Sunset. Let me tell you, I was pretty freaked out.”

“It gets dark quick this time of year,” Somnus says. “If you’re not used to it, it can take you by surprise.”

“I’ll say! So, you live around here?”

Somnus forces himself not to feel nervous. Prompto has been nothing but kind and friendly. There’s nothing to worry about. “My brother and I have a farm not too far from here. We’ve lived here my whole life.”

“Wow. Sounds amazing,” Prompto says. He throws his hands out wide. “The air is so clean here! And the scenery is amazing. That’s why I came here in the first place. The magazine I work for wanted shots of wild animals, and no one’s better at photographing animals than me! I got a lot of practice as a kid.” He trails off, his face falling into a sad smile. Before Somnus can ask what’s wrong, Prompto grins again. “But seriously, it must be great to live in the demilitarized zone. No fighting and all that.”

Somnus blinks. “Fighting...?”

“Oh! Hey, that’s the path, right?” Prompto asks, pointing up ahead.

Somnus blinks in surprise. “Oh, uh, yeah. That’s it. Hey, what do you mean by—”

“You’re a life-saver. My car’s not too far, and it’s got special headlights that make it safe to drive at night. I should be fine from here—I’ve got a gun, just in case.” Prompto slaps him on the shoulder. Somnus jolts at the sudden contact. “See ya, dude.”

“Wait!” Somnus says, grabbing at his wrist. When Prompto turns around, a single eyebrow raised, Somnus bites his lip. “What do you mean, demilitarized zone?”

Prompto cocks his head. “I mean… Niflheim isn’t allowed to build its bases around here. Neither is Lucis. It’s part of the cease fire that happened, like, five years ago.”

Somnus’s blood runs cold. It’s been about five years since he’s seen a black-clad Lucian soldier. “Why a cease fire? Is there… is there a _war?”_

Prompto’s mouth drops open. He blinks a few times, apparently unable to speak. The wind blows just a fraction harder.

“Of course there is. Man, what rock have you been living under?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens ;3


	5. Chapter 5

That night, Somnus sits on the couch in the sun room, frowning. The wide, open windows let the breeze coast in and ruffle his hair. It's been hours since Prompto left, and the silence is deafening.

Somnus's eyes are focused on the horizon. Watching. Every once in a while, he jolts, thinking he’s caught sight of a black clad soldier in the distance, the flash of a bomb going off. It’s far past the time he’d normally go to sleep, and his brain is getting foggy, but he can’t bring himself to go back to his room and curl up in bed, though. The threatening energy in the air tonight is far too potent to let him sleep.

It’s not that he’s afraid of the fighting, or the soldiers, or the war. Not at all. He wishes it was. But no, the reason for the nerves prickling under his skin, the reason he's shifting and squirming in unease, is because Ardyn has lied to him. Again.

His “origins.” The war. Somnus has always accepted Ardyn’s word as truth, because what other truth could there be? If Ardyn is the sun, Somnus is the moon. He reflects his brother’s light, absorbs his brother’s knowledge, follows his brother’s lead. The thought that Ardyn had lied about anything regarding his past was, well, disconcerting, but Somnus was always able to convince himself it wasn’t important. His past is inconsequential. It’s gone, lost to the sands of time. Ephemeral and distant, like clouds shifting above the earth.

A war, though? Weapons tearing through flesh and bone, the cries of innocents as fire scorches their fields, as bombs rain down on their homes? The fact that Ardyn concealed such a thing isn’t something he can ignore. He can't even fathom it.

Because if Ardyn lied to him about something so basic, if he neglected to say a thing about a _war_ going on in their backyard, then what _else_ is he hiding?

It makes Somnus’s stomach churn. He hates the idea that Ardyn might be lying to him, but he hates himself even more for doubting his big brother. If he doubts Ardyn, then he has to doubt everything else—his life, his knowledge, even his own identity.

And with Ardyn trying to get rid of him years ago, that thought is… it’s…

Somnus groans and buries his head in his knees. He doesn’t know what to do. He wishes it would all go away.

And yet, the thoughts remain, wriggling like maggots. The world is twisting, sliding just out of sync with his body. Somnus drips out of his own skin, making a little puddle of mindless goop on the ground. His fingers pull at his hair. He only feels the pain from a distance.

Even when he hears those unmistakable footsteps trailing into the sun room, he can’t move. This situation—Ardyn’s heavy steps and Somnus’s eyes shut tight—reminds him of early days. His memories from childhood are hazy at best, but there's one he remembers vividly; he'd been huddled up in bed, frozen in terror as he heard Ardyn walking down the hallway. It's ridiculous to even think about. There's no way he was ever scared of Ardyn. Ardyn is family. Ardyn is safe.

Somnus doesn't think he feels safe when Ardyn shuts the windows.

“What are you doing out here? You’ll catch cold,” he admonishes.

Somnus glances up. He doesn’t look directly at Ardyn’s face. “I was just thinking.”

“Oh? Is there something in particular on your mind?” Somnus freezes. There’s nothing unusual about the question, nothing off about Ardyn's tone. It still feels like an interrogation, like Ardyn is suspicious of him.

Somnus doesn’t say anything, just lowers his head again and shrugs.

“Perhaps not,” Ardyn says. “Are you alright, Som?”

“Sure,” Somnus says.

Ardyn sits next to him on the wicker couch.

The chocobo stuffed cushions muffle the sounds as Somnus shifts. If Ardyn is a liar, does that make their entire life a lie, too? Their farm? What if it’s all just a smoke screen meant to obscure the truth?

Why is he even _questioning_ Ardyn's truth?

“Som?” Ardyn repeats, and Somnus can’t keep it up.

“Have you been lying to me?” he asks, voice small. He can’t help the twinge of nervousness that goes along with the words.

“Whatever do you mean?” Ardyn asks, in a tone so practiced, so calm, it makes Somnus _furious._

“I met someone today,” he snaps, getting up. It feels better to be standing while Ardyn sits. This way, Somnus is taller than him. More secure. “And guess what he told me? He said there’s a war between Lucis and Niflheim. Did you forget to mention that in my diplomacy lessons?”

For a moment, Somnus dares to hope there’s an easy explanation, that Ardyn has a soothing word prepared that will wipe away all his fears. That word never comes. “Somnus, I can explain—”

“Can you?” Somnus’s hands clench into fists. He does his breathing, focusing on controlling his magic so it doesn’t explode and consume both of them. “Can you explain what you meant about my _origins_ , too?”

Ardyn looks weary. “I thought you said you didn’t wish to know.”

“Maybe I do,” Somnus says uncertainly. “Maybe I need to know.”

Ardyn nods slowly. Without the breeze coming in, the energy in the room has become static. Like kindling before fire alights. “Alright. Sit down, then. This shall take a while.”

Somnus sits. His leg jumps in place.

Ardyn sighs and covers his face with a hand. “What would you like to know first?”

“I…” Somnus’s mouth dries up. “The war. Tell me about the war.”

“It is true that war persists in this land,” Ardyn concedes. Somnus stiffens. “You need not worry, however. The fighting shall not come near us.”

“Yeah, I know, there’s a ceasefire. That’s not the point. Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Ardyn sighs, puts his head in his hands. The rabbit-foot pace of Somnus's heart isn’t calming down. “Ardyn?”

"I didn't wish to frighten you," Ardyn says. "My wish was for you to live peacefully, away from all that mindless killing."

"...okay." It sounds reasonable enough. Somnus feels exhausted, just from this tiny bit of talk; he doesn't want to know the rest, he decides. Ardyn's explanation is enough. Of course it is. It's always enough. He heads for the door. His palms are clammy. "I'm tired. Night."

Ardyn startles out of his seat. "What about the rest? Are you trying to say you're satisfied with such a… a lackluster conclusion?"

"Sure." Somnus pushes on the door handle. "Goodnight."

“You are not my baby brother,” Ardyn snaps. “I stole you.”

The world fills with static. Somnus can’t hear anything, at least not correctly, because he _must_ have misheard what Ardyn just said. There’s no possible way. Even if he’s lied about other things, even if there are a million things Somnus doesn’t know, this is the one thing Ardyn couldn’t have lied about.

There’s just no way.

Ardyn is still speaking. “—son of the King of Lucis. I spirited you away when you were but two years old. I only meant to protect you—that is, I never thought—”

“No,” Somnus mutters. “No, no, no.”

Ardyn looks concerned. Worried. Intent, affectionate _, brotherly._

Somnus practically throws the door open. His entire body is shaking. His vision is fuzzy. He can’t _think._

“Som, sit down and breathe deep. I’ll explain everything if you’d just—”

Somnus doesn’t want Ardyn’s explanations. Right now, he doesn’t want Ardyn’s _anything._

“No,” he says, and runs.

\---

He stays out in the field for the next three days. Ardyn leaves plates of food out for him, and there are apologies in the complexity of each dish; Somnus’s favorite fish, grilled slow with herbs and paired with lemon juice, a sweet bread filled with nuts and dry berries, even a cup of ice cream which quickly melts under the sun. Somnus pours it out onto the grass and watches ants swarm the puddle.

He’s not Ardyn’s brother. But at the same time he _is_ Ardyn’s brother, has been for _years_ . He knows from novels and history that brotherhood goes deeper than blood, deeper than birth; it’s a bond between two people who love each other enough to die for each other, who take solace in each other’s company. Who _trust_ each other.

Somnus doesn’t think his trust in Ardyn has been shattered. It’s been tested, definitely, strained, but not broken.

He returns to the house on the fourth day. He’s gross and sweaty and his clothes are unwashed, covered in dirt and grass from nights spent sleeping in the field, but those are all secondary concerns in the face of what he has to do. He finds Ardyn shoveling food into the garula pen, looking completely miserable. His hair is tangled around his chin and he’s covered in dirt. When he sees Somnus, he freezes completely, the feed bucket falling from his hands with a clang.

Somnus grabs him by the arm. “You’re filthy. Come on, let’s get you washed.”

“What are you—”

"Shut it," Somnus says. "Bathe first, talk later."

After Somnus fills the tub, Ardyn stares at it like he has no idea what to do. Somnus huffs, yanks off his clothes, and shoves him into the bath. He bathes Ardyn the same way Ardyn bathed him when he was a child; the change in their roles is almost comedic.

It takes longer than expected to untangle Ardyn's hair. Somnus frowns. It doesn't look (or smell) like he's washed himself at all since Somnus left. When he finally finishes the task at hand, he leaves Ardyn with a rag, and tells him he’d better be free of dirt and mud by the time he comes back to the house.

Somnus doesn't bother waiting for a reply. He goes to the chocobo pen, selects a bird, and slaughters it. It takes some time to clean the carcass and prepare the meat, but before long it’s spiced and smoking on the stove. As he goes about picking and washing the vegetables, preparing to saute them alongside the meat, he realizes Ardyn still hasn’t returned.

Somnus finds him still huddled in the bathtub, arms around his knees like a child. He scoffs and kicks the tub. Ardyn jolts.

“You planning on staying there all day?” he asks. “I could use some help with dinner. Unless you like your food half-burned.”

Ardyn looks up at him warily. “Should I expect to be slain in my sleep tonight?”

Somnus cringes. “Come on, don’t joke like that.”

“You did listen when I told you what I did to you, yes?” Ardyn’s eyes narrow into golden slits. “You’re not my brother. Your true name is—”

“Nope, can’t hear you, don’t care.” Somnus tugs on his arm. “Come help me make dinner.”

Ardyn snarls, but gets out of the tub.

They eat an hour later in total silence. Somnus doesn’t bother with his manners; in fact, he specifically tries to avoid them, tearing into his food like an animal. Ardyn sighs at the mess he makes, grabs a cloth napkin, and wipes off his mouth and fingers.

“I know it’s hard,” Ardyn says, brushing back his bangs. “But you have to hear this, Noctis.”

The unfamiliar name sends a shock down Somnus’s spine. “No. I’m Somnus.”

“That’s what I told you, yes. But it’s not the name you were born with.”

“Of course it is,” Somnus counters. His hands shake. “I was born the day you brought me here. I didn’t exist before I met you.”

Ardyn scoffs. “Hush, little prince. You must know the truth.”

“Why now?” Somnus says. “Why now, after all this time? Why not let me keep believing in it? In you?”

“Because you deserved better than I gave you,” Ardyn says. “I wounded you when I stole you away. I tore a gash in your very soul. You’d have lived a better life without me.”

“No,” Somnus whispers. His chest contracts painfully. “Never.”

Ardyn grabs him then, cradles his head against his chest, the way he had when Somnus was a child and had terrible, awful nightmares about people he didn’t know and places he didn’t remember. “What comes to pass will be ever more painful the longer you cling to me. That was the point, once, before I came to love you.” Ardyn sighs. “I meant to care for you under lock and key, to keep you away from the gods who tossed me to the wolves. You were to fulfill your destiny when I said it was time, and you were to cry the tears _he_ declined to shed eons ago. My dear little brother, you know not the future we must face."

“So tell me,” Somnus says.

And Ardyn does.

\---

A blanket of mist falls over the city sometime around midnight. A soft rain is pattering against the high windows, and even through the thick walls of the Citadel, Ignis can feel the chill. He sighs, readjusts his jacket, and puts pen back to paper. He doesn’t _like_ staying up late into the night, looking over an endless array of reports, but he can’t put this off any longer. He has never once been late in writing his deliverables for the Council, and he isn't going to embarrass Regis by starting now.

His guardian doesn’t deserve such disrespect.

The clock ticks. Its monotonous tune fades into the hum of the rain, a beat to which Ignis writes his speech, revises, edits, revises again, and prints. The whole process takes him over an hour, and leaves his eyes burning and his limbs heavy. He takes off his glasses and tries to rub the sleepiness away. If he passes out at his desk again, the maids will have a fit.

Luckily, it doesn’t seem he’ll have to try and get up on his own. The door opens and shuts loudly, and footsteps that betray a bulky physique walk up to him.

“Evening, Gladio,” Ignis says. “What are you doing up so late?”

“Could ask the same of you, princess,” Gladio says. He folds his arms. Ignis is immune to his Shield’s intimidating glare, to Gladio's never ending frustration. “Do you want to pass out in the middle of Council?”

“Not particularly.” Ignis stifles a yawn. “A little help getting up, perhaps?”

“Dumbass,” Gladio mutters. He grabs Ignis’s arm and tugs him out of his seat.

They make their way through the halls in silence. At times like this, Gladio is always quiet; in peaceful moments he thinks about the boy who should have been his charge. The boy Ignis never met, the boy Gladio can’t remember.

Noctis Lucis Caelum’s impressions are all over the Citadel. The King had his portraits moved to his private rooms years ago; there’s an emptiness that hangs in those spaces on the walls, in the voices of servants who still remember him. Ignis himself feels it sometimes. He thinks of Noctis as an old, long forgotten friend, perhaps even a brother, though he never got to meet the poor boy.

He knows that tomorrow, August 30th, the Council will approve of his new plan to find the lost prince. Ignis remembers when he was thirteen and freshly introduced to the Citadel, selected out of a wide pool of applicants for the position of heir apparent. Regis had been so adamant about each new search, so zealous. Now, nearly eighteen years after his son has gone missing, Ignis knows he’s lost hope.

The prince is likely dead, though he will never be declared so. His ghost lingers.

Gladio departs Ignis’s side when they reach the royal apartments. Beyond the grand entrance are Ignis and Regis’s rooms. He technically wasn’t supposed to live here, but Regis insisted. Once the legal adoption was finished, he'd declared Ignis would be treated as a Lucis Caelum in every way.

Well. Every way except those which cannot be given via royal decree.

The grand halls within the royal apartments are empty. Ignis yawns. He really is exhausted, and the thought of collapsing into bed without brushing his teeth is becoming more and more appealing.

A faint noise stops him as he passes Regis’s room. Ignis jumps to the door, listening for an alarming sound, a sign the King is in danger. All he hears is a sob.

He freezes. He never knows what to do at times like this, when Regis’s grief overwhelms him. His hand slides down the mahogany door, resting on the cold handle. Regis lets out another low sob, the sincere cry of a man in unimaginable pain, and Ignis pushes down the handle.

“Regis?” Ignis says. “May I come in?”

“Ignis. Yes, of course, come in.” The room is embalmed in shadow. Scant moonbeams fall as silvery wisps over the armchair where the King sits. Across from him, hanging on the wall, is a portrait of his real family; Her Majesty the late Queen Aulea and His Highness Prince Noctis.

Ignis kneels in front of Regis and tries to comfort him as best as he can, as the prince’s replacement.

“I must come to accept he’s gone,” Regis is saying. Tears catch in the hairs of his beard. “Lucis needs me. I cannot—I _cannot_ …”

“You’re human. You’re allowed to feel,” Ignis says, though he knows it won’t mean anything. The burden of kingship cannot be made lighter by words. “You’re allowed to grieve.”

“I must forget,” Regis insists, “but how? He’s my _son,_ my child. I held him in my arms when he was not five minutes born into this world. Those big eyes, those small hands… What kind of father would I be to forget him? To give up?”

Ignis cringes. He wishes he was better at this. “Regis…”

“What if he’s suffering?” A flash of lightning erupts outside. When it recedes, the room seems even darker than before. “I can’t imagine he’s… but the thought of him being hurt, abused somewhere, it’s—I _can’t_ —what kind of father _am_ I?”

Ignis watches helplessly as the King collapses into another sobbing fit. His old hands grip Ignis’s so tightly, the Ring of the Lucii leaves red impressions on his skin. Ignis knows neither of them will sleep tonight—Regis because of his grief, and Ignis because he never sleeps well when his guardian is mere meters away, alone and hurting.

He takes a deep breath. His throat is dry. The papers for tomorrow’s Council meeting, the proposition to once again renew the hunt for Prince Noctis, hang heavy in his messenger bag. He squeezes Regis’s hands, waits ‘til the King looks at him.

“I don’t know if the sentiment will help any,” Ignis says, “but you’ve been a perfectly wonderful father to me.”

Regis pulls him close. His sobs shake their way through Ignis’s heart. “Ignis, my _son_.”

Eighteen years ago, Regis lost his son.

Twelve years ago, Ignis lost his parents.

Maybe this right here—this tenuous bond, this odd space between family and strangers, where Ignis calls the King by his first name instead of _father_ —maybe this is the best they can do. There’s no replacing Ignis’s parents, no replacing Regis’s son, so they cling to this fragile reality. It’s the closest they can get to happiness. It’s a false dawn in a world without a sun.

That night, Ignis sleeps on the couch in Regis’s rooms. Sometime in the night he stirs, bleary eyes catching sight of a bright blue light floating through the room. The apparition crackles and pops. Some force comes over Ignis, and he falls back asleep.

The next morning, Regis is newly invigorated. He dismisses Ignis’s proposed plan out of hand, points to an empty forested area at the edges of Lucian territory, beyond a largely unexplored mountain range, and commands that the search efforts be refocused there.

After the Council members shuffle out, Regis lays a hand on Ignis’s shoulder. “Your brother is coming home,” he says. “Noctis is coming home.”

Ignis fights with the bitter swirl in his gut, and smiles. “As you say, Regis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been getting so many comments recently it's too much to reply to all of them, but thank you so much to everyone who left comments on this fic! it means the world to me <3


	6. Chapter 6

The next few weeks, nothing changes.

At least, nothing changes on the _surface._ Ignis goes about his duties, meeting with Council members and taking care of affairs in Leide, which he was made the duke of last spring. In his free time, he keeps apprised of the search efforts. They’re mostly unexciting; the special search teams keep reporting they aren’t finding anything.

The entire area Regis has insisted on investigating is in the demilitarized zone, which complicates things a bit. Glaives and Crownsguard can’t accompany the searchers, and even though the group carries no weapons and has no affiliation with the military, if Niflheim notices the activity in the region, they could take offense to it. They’ve been jittery ever since the balance of power shifted twenty years ago; when the Imperial Chancellor went missing, the Niflheimr military took a huge blow.

Twenty years—only two years before Prince Noctis’s own disappearance. It’s a concerning timeline, a small detail that gets under Ignis’s skin. They’ve found nothing to indicate that the incidents are related, of course, and it isn’t uncommon for political and military officials to “disappear” in Niflheim, and yet…

He glances down at the alert coming in on his phone. It’s the most recent report of the search team’s findings. The report is long and unwieldy, but the result is the same: nothing.

Ignis sighs. He types a quick update to send to Regis—a habit he hasn’t attended to in years, as his bleak messages tended to make the King even more depressed than usual. Now, he responds with a brief, but not unhappy, _Thank you for the update, son :)_

Clearly, the King has some information that the rest of the Citadel, Ignis included, is not privy to. He has a pretty good idea of what it is; he doubts the mystic blue light he saw was simply his imagination. Though the domestic staff and guards know less than he does, they’ve picked up on their King’s energy. Everyone walks with a bit more pep in their step. The halls buzz with rumors about the Prince. Ignis has seen the maids put more effort into cleaning the Prince’s vacant chambers than usual.

And, of course, there are the whispers that follow him like flies on rotting food.

Ignis knows the likely outcome if Prince Noctis is found. He will be reinstated as the heir apparent, and Ignis will be politely discarded. He doesn’t believe Regis will have the heart to throw him out, but at the end of the day, Ignis has always been a replacement son, a shadow of a boy once thought gone from this world. Will Ignis be able to stay here, his time suddenly freed by a lack of duty, his Shield trailing behind someone else, with servants constantly tripping over his title, unsure of whether to call him _Your Highness_ or _Lord Scientia?_

He doesn’t know the answer. It’s likely that, if Prince Noctis lives, whatever ordeal he has been through was traumatic. He will need time to adjust, to relearn the ropes of his position. There will be several years, perhaps, where Ignis will still be needed to perform his princely duties. Maybe Regis will even ask him to teach Prince Noctis. And after that…

After that, what will he do?

He glances at his watch, groans, and hastens his pace to the gardens. He’s late for two o’ clock combat practice with Gladio, largely due to his own mindless wandering. He knows Gladio won’t complain—Ignis is not often late—but being unpunctual _will_ reflect badly on Regis.

Regis has given him everything; a home and family after he lost his own in Tenebrae’s fall, a purpose and place when he had none in the ever changing world. If Regis asks him to teach Noctis to replace him, he will do it. If Regis asks him to leave, he’ll do that, too.

He’ll do anything.

\---

“Noctis,” Ardyn tries, though he knows it’s useless.

The prince has, for the past month, refused to answer to his name. He’ll ignore Ardyn again and again until he caves and calls out for _Somnus_. Then Noctis is bright and happy to do whatever his brother asks of him.

Too happy.

Ardyn knows he’s burying his feelings. What else could he do? That is what Ardyn taught him, so many years ago; forget who you are. Forget who you love. Cast it off, and find solace in this new life. Forget, forget, forget.

In the end, he has only himself to blame for this mess.

Ardyn gives in. Weak, the scourge chides him. Despicably weak. "Som."

"Yeah?" Noctis says. He pauses in sewing a tear in one of Ardyn's shirts. "Need something?"

Ardyn sits next to him on the couch and pulls him into a hug.

"Needy," Noctis jokes. He snuggles up to Ardyn’s side and sighs, content, as if there's no place he'd rather be. "You okay?"

"Perfectly fine," Ardyn lies. "How are you feeling, little brother?"

"I'm okay. The harvest looks like it's gonna be good this year." Noctis laughs. "Can't wait for the winter. I'm gonna drink _so much_ cold lemonade."

"Somnus," Ardyn sighs. "Somnus, Somnus, Somnus."

"Yeah?"

Ardyn squeezes him. He thinks of ancient memories, of a vast field of white flowers, an old, empty manor, his toddler brother waddling through the halls and crying when he tripped. He thinks of his younger self, soothing the scrapes on his little hands with divine power. Those little hands had grown strong enough to plunge a sword through his beloved’s back. "My baby brother."

"That's right," Noctis says. "You gonna let go so I can finish this?"

Ardyn lets go. A few minutes later, Noctis presents him with the fixed shirt. The hole has been stitched together with plain thread. Ardyn thanks him with another hug, then takes his hands. They’re calloused from years of hard work, but they’re delicate, too. Weak.

Whatever he may have deluded them both into believing, Noctis is not his little brother. He never was.

"You must kill me one day," Ardyn says.

Noctis shifts uncomfortably. “No. I refuse.”

“‘Tis not something we can avoid, little prince.” Ardyn sighs. “Besides, I told you, did I not? I am old and tired. If you decline to fulfill your destiny, I will continue living on after you die, and never find rest. Would you damn me to such a fate?”

Noctis hiccups. “No. I don’t want you to suffer.” He yanks away suddenly, holding Ardyn at a distance. His blue eyes are swimming in tears, but his expression is hard and unyielding. “You have to promise me, though.”

“Anything.”

“We die together.”

Ardyn closes his eyes. In the darkness, he sees the flowers again, the manor. _“I’ll stay with you forever, big brother!”_ a ten year old Somnus says. Then he’s twenty eight, a young man with gritted teeth and clenched fists. _“At this rate, you’ll kill yourself, Ardyn. Those commoners aren’t worth your life!_

_“Do you intend on abandoning me?!”_

“As you wish,” Ardyn promises him. “This time, we die together.”

\---

One week later, Ignis is awoken in the middle of the night by an emergency alert sounding on his phone. He swipes at the alert, opening it as he grabs his glasses off the nightstand. When the blinding light of his phone comes into focus, Ignis reads, takes his glasses off, cleans them, and reads again.

It’s the newest report from the search teams. Normally such a thing would be run through the forensics team at their own leisure, and then transferred to Ignis and the Council when they’re done. But this discovery, this update—Ignis can see why it needs emergency attention.

At the top of a report is a photo of a young man with black hair and blue eyes, working in a wheat field. The photo was taken from a distance, without the man’s knowledge, but the face is strikingly similar to the age progression image of Prince Noctis that Ignis has looked over countless times. His throat grows dry.

Before he can read the rest of the report, there’s a sharp knock at his door. Ignis smooths out his night clothes and fixes his bed head as best as he can before opening the door.

Regis is smiling. His eyes are choked with tears. Ignis steps aside to let him in.

“You’ve seen the report?” Regis asks.

“Yes,” Ignis says. They sit on the couches in the living area. “I presume we are to act as soon as possible?”

“Not yet. It seems he’s been living under some assumed identity—the team indicated they heard another man in the area calling him by a false name.” Regis folds his hands in his lap. “I don’t want to startle him. The lab also wants to run a DNA test on a sample they were able to obtain. Just to be certain.”

“I see,” Ignis says. “And if he is His Highness?”

“He is,” Regis says. “I know it.”

Ignis clears his throat. “It is possible his memories have been lost to time. How are we to proceed?”

“I’ve sent out instructions for a team of psychologists to be assembled later this morning. They’ll be responsible for drawing up a psychiatric assessment and suggestions on how to make the recovery mission less traumatic for Noctis. In the meantime, the team will continue observing, to make sure he stays out of harm’s way.”

“I see,” Ignis says. He skims through the rest of the report. The second man in the area was only heard, not seen, but it’s probable he was involved with the kidnapping. If not, he could have bought Noctis as an adoptive son—there’s unfortunately a fairly prosperous black market for illegal adoptions of that sort. “I must admit, I didn’t expect this outcome. He seems… well.”

“He’s alive and evidently healthy,” Regis says quietly. “This is more than I could have ever hoped for.”

They sit in silence for a while. The time is 3:18 in the morning, a mere hour before Ignis would usually be awakened by his alarm. Regis doesn’t say anything more, and Ignis is too unsure of what _to_ say, so he awkwardly goes about his early morning routine; confirming appointments for the day, reviewing his schedule for the next week, and checking the morning news. There was a small pro-Niflheim terror skirmish in Duscae, but it was swiftly quelled by local police. Nothing requiring his immediate attention has occurred in Leide. And, naturally, the media has not yet been informed of Prince Noctis’s safe discovery.

Ignis watches Regis get up from his chair and begin pacing, but he doesn’t say anything. The swirl of conflicting feelings in his gut keep him stuck in place; he’s bitter and jealous, but does he have a right to be? Hasn’t he always known he was someone else’s replacement? Doesn’t His Highness deserve to return to his family and home as it was when he left? It’s not as if Ignis hasn’t been set aside before, quietly shuffled into the background by distant relatives who cared not for him or his family, but had to take him in for appearance’s sake.

It just never hurt this much before.

“There is something I must discuss with you,” Regis says haltingly. Ignis sits up a little taller. “It is… difficult.”

“I believe I already know what you must say.” Ignis wants to get this over with as quickly as possible. “When Prince Noctis returns to the Citadel, he shall be named the heir apparent.”

Regis lets out a long, heavy breath. “Yes.”

“Understood.” Ignis nods his head jerkily. The world is moving too slow for comfort. Even if he must stay for the next few years to help train the wayward Prince, he needs a plan for the future. He needs to clean out his rooms, look for potential job opportunities. He has extensive experience in government—perhaps he could obtain work in a public office in the outer regions of Lucis, or perhaps return to Tenebrae…

“When Noctis reclaims his title as Crown Prince, I’d like you to be named his Royal Advisor,” Regis is saying. Ignis runs through all the qualifications he has. He’s skilled in diplomacy, military strategy, swordsmanship, he can speak three languages fluently and is passable in a forth… “Even if he is my son, he hasn’t been brought up as a future king, and I have no doubt the adjustment will be difficult for him. As his brother, I’d like you to remain at his side.”

“...what?” Ignis prides himself on being fast on the uptake, able to adapt to new situations fast and efficiently, but trying to catch up with Regis’s commands while his own mind is spinning is a nigh impossible task. “Forgive me, could you repeat yourself…?”

“Of course, this is rather fast, after all.” Regis sits on the couch next to Ignis. “It’s common practice within the Lucis Caelum family to appoint a relative as Royal Advisor. The position isn’t always filled, mind you—I never had such a confidante—but a close companion can be a great boon for a young, inexperienced king.”

“And you want…” Ignis takes off his spectacles, cleans them on the hem of his night shirt, puts them back on. Pinches himself. Tries to make sure he’s lucid. “Forgive me, Regis—you want _me_ to take such a position?”

“Yes?” Regis says. His confusion draws lines in his forehead. “Unless you would rather decline.”

“No! No. I’m honored.” Ignis bows his head. What is _happening_ here? He'd expected to be asked to teach Prince Noctis for a few years, yes, but the position of Royal Advisor is a _permanent_ one. And it's only ever held by Lucis Caelums. “It would be my pleasure to perform such an important duty.”

Regis smiles warmly. His hand falls heavily on Ignis’s shoulder. “Thank you, my son. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Ignis swallows down the lump in his throat. “Surely you would get along just fine.”

“I doubt that.” Regis chuckles. There's a nostalgic glint in his eye. Ignis recognizes it from the few times he's seen the King reminiscing fondly about Noctis, about Aulea, about soft, happy moments untainted by loss. Each and every one of those times before now, Regis had been drunk. "You saved me, Ignis."

The statement is so unexpected, so incomprehensible, it steals Ignis's ability to speak. He sits, back ramrod straight, staring.

"It's true," Regis sighs. "After Noctis was… taken… I spent years in a haze. I couldn't laugh. I couldn't cry. I had forgotten how to do anything except sign royal decrees and debate with the Council." The hand on his shoulder squeezes once, twice, before drawing away. "You reminded me how to be a father again."

"I'm glad to be of service," Ignis chokes.

That elicits a laugh. “Oh, Ignis. Your sense of humor never fails to lighten the mood.” Regis stands. His normal expression, the guarded but kind facade Ignis is used to, returns. “Sorry to wake you so early. Get back to sleep.”

Ignis glances at the clock on the wall. 3:58am. “I typically wake up only thirty minutes from now. It would be more efficient to simply get dressed.”

“Nonsense. Sleep in today. You’ve earned it.”

Ten minutes after the King leaves, the only choked word Ignis is able to force out of his mouth is “how.”

He goes back to bed. Lazing about without any real purpose isn’t something Ignis is used to. He feels like he’s wasting time. A thousand possible things he could attend to—organizing the minutes for the last Council meeting, public relations management, research on his soon-to-be new position—nag at him from the corners of his mind. Except Regis told him to _sleep in today,_ so that’s what he intends to do. Sleep in. Even if no sleeping is actually involved.

Ignis has been thinking about it all day, all week, all year, _forever_ —what will happen to him if Prince Noctis returns? Now he has his answer. But instead of the questions ending, the possible futures disappearing like smoke, they simply reform and appear anew.

What if Prince Noctis hates him? What if he doesn’t? What if he’s traumatized and needs years to recover? What if he’s not? What will Ignis do if Noctis fights Regis, fights him, what will Ignis do if he wants to return to whatever life he’s been living all this time? It’s incredibly unlikely, but possible, that he’s lived a healthy, normal life, one he enjoys. Ignis pulls out his phone, looks at the photograph of the country boy in the report. He’s tanned from the sun, smeared with dirt, sweat causing his black hair to stick to his neck. He looks happy.

Ignis isn’t sure someone who finds happiness in hard day-labor, in the wide open sky and endless fields of wheat, would enjoy sleeping on silk sheets in a gilded cage.

Though he must admit, as he snuggles a little deeper into bed, that he doesn’t mind the cage at all.

\---

By the time winter comes, their farmstead will be _perfect._

Somnus has spent the last several weeks making sure of it. He’s fixed all their torn clothes and pillows, made several new rugs to lay on the floor, and is currently in the process of weaving together a new scarecrow for the fields. By December, everything _will_ be flawless, and neither Somnus nor Ardyn will ever need to leave home again. Not for supplies, not for adventure, and definitely not for the past.

Somnus will kill Ardyn right here, in the home they built together, and then they shall both know peace.

\---

The plan is ready.

It’s been a long time coming. Armed with a positive paternity test, an extensive psychological profile dozens of pages deep, and a complete military casing of the area, Lucis is ready to take back its prince. The plan is relatively straight forward; first, they’ll have a small team approach Prince Noctis while he’s outside, alone. After they make contact, the second team will storm the farmstead, take the suspect captive, and transport them both back to Insomnia.

Ignis doesn’t expect it to go as planned. Whatever has happened to Prince Noctis over the past eighteen years, he’s been kept relatively healthy and happy. Ignis can’t imagine he’ll be eager to leave. According to the psychological profile, it will be a miracle if he is.

So many possible points of damage. Attachment disorder, anxiety, depression, aversion to strangers, post traumatic stress… and for Prince Noctis to have been held so long, well, who knows what the full effects will be?

Ignis glances over to Regis, smiling slightly as he turns the pages of a novel. If Prince Noctis rejects Insomnia, if he rejects _Regis_ …

There’s no way around it. It’ll destroy him.

“The minutes seem to pass like years,” Regis sighs, thumbing at his book. His eyes keep darting over the same passage, over and over and over.

“Tomorrow morning will be here before long,” Ignis says. “For now, try to relax.”

“I cannot.” Regis shuts the book. “Tell me truthfully, Ignis. Do you think he will be happy to come home?”

Ignis pushes up his glasses. “I’m not sure. It has been… quite some time. He may not react favorably.”

“I know,” Regis says softly. “I know you’re right. And yet, finding him like this, alive, after all this time—how can I _not_ believe in him?”

“Whatever comes, we’ll face each bridge when we come to it. Not a moment sooner or later.”

“Yes.” Regis turns over his hand. He twists the Ring of the Lucii a few times. “Thank you.”

With the way Regis is still looking at the Ring, Ignis doesn't think the words are meant for him.

\---

The next morning, while it's still dark, Ignis wakes up. He takes time choosing his clothes, sculpting his hair, and cleaning his glasses. He rereads the psych assessment once on the way to the car, and three more times on the road. The sun has just begun rising when they reach the mountain pass. It lights up the grass like a sea of gold. The wildflowers strain upwards, desperate to catch some light for themselves. It's breathtaking. Ignis straightens his back, and walks tall.

It's time to meet his little brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _deep breath_ aaaaaaaaaaaa
> 
> small note: fic archive warning status has been updated from "no warnings apply" to "choose not to warn."


	7. Chapter 7

Somnus wakes up to sunshine and the chirping of birds.

It's a beautiful day, he decides. The sun is peeking warmly over the horizon, turning the distant forests a deep orange. The air is heavy with the scent of fall. Somnus follows his nose down to the dining room, where Ardyn is waiting for him with a cup of spiced milk.

"Thanks," Somnus says, grateful for the warm drink. The morning air is chilled. "What's on the agenda for today?"

"We need more nuts and berries," Ardyn says. "At the rate you've been eating them, I shan't have enough to bake bread this evening.

"Oh, shut up," Somnus says. "I'll go get some, so hold your chocobos."

"Thank you kindly." Ardyn tosses a scarf at him as he leaves. "Don't catch cold."

Somnus snorts, puts on the scarf, and heads out.

It’s only a short walk to the woods. Though it’s nearly midday, the sun is shadowed behind heavy clouds. It smells like there’s rain on the way. Somnus takes care to sort through the trees carefully, checking for the ones that are free of insects and rot. He beats those with heavy sticks, then climbs up and rustles the branches until the nuts fall to the ground. Once he has a decent amount nestled in his basket, it’s on to the berries; there are a variety of bushes in the woods that are edible, but a fair few poisonous ones, too. It’s through pure memory that Somnus finds the safe ones and plucks them. For these, he’ll need quite a few. Ardyn wants to make bread, and Somnus is planning on baking a sugar loaf later this week. The extra sweetness from dried berries will make them much tastier.

A twig snaps behind him. Somnus glances over his shoulder, expecting to see a fox, or perhaps a deer. The human figure in the corner of his eye doesn’t startle him as much as it used to. For some reason, he expects it to be Prompto.

It isn’t.

Somnus feels for the knife tucked in his boot, stealthily moving it to his jacket pocket, before he stands and turns. The man isn’t carrying any noticeable weapons, and while his posture is formal, it isn’t threatening. He smiles kindly. Somnus doesn’t return the gesture.

The man, after all, is dressed in _black._

“Good morning,” he says. He doesn’t move forward any, but he isn’t backing off, either. “Could I trouble you for a moment?”

“I thought Lucian soldiers weren’t allowed here,” Somnus says. The knife hangs heavy against his chest.

The man raises a brow. “I am not a soldier, though I am Lucian.” He steps forward. “You recognize the royal color, then?”

“Should I not?” Somnus steps back. This is bad. Very bad. He remembers Ardyn’s warnings from his childhood well, and now he knows the reason for them; the Lucians want him back. They want to tear him away from Ardyn, to destroy his family. Despite Ardyn’s insistence that the King is at least somewhat kind, that he does _love_ him, somehow, in some way, Somnus can’t allow himself to believe it. Those thoughts only invite confusion.

He drops the basket and draws his knife. Berries and nuts spill out over the grass. Confusion won’t help him protect what’s important.

Conviction _will._

The man eyes the knife warily, but doesn’t back down. The lack of care for his own safety indicates he doesn’t see Somnus as a threat, which is dangerous. It could mean any number of things; he has a hidden weapon, or some sort of combat training, or allies…

...the woods have been silent for a while now, haven’t they…?

Somnus snarls. He’s a damned fool.

“My name is Ignis Scientia,” the man says. He holds up his hands. “I am unarmed. You have nothing to fear from me, Your Highness.”

Somnus stiffens. Sweat slicks his palm, loosening his grip on the knife. He has to call out for Ardyn, has to get his attention—but the farmhouse is too far away for his voice to carry, and if he shouts, Ignis could call in his friends to finish him off. Or capture him. Being dragged away from his home kicking and screaming is the same as death, as far as Somnus is concerned.

“Do you know why I called you by that title?” Ignis asks. Somnus snarls. He wishes he would shut up. He doesn’t care about Ignis’s questions, about whatever game he’s trying to play. Whenever he’s talking, or looking at him, or _breathing_ , it interrupts Somnus’s train of thought. He can’t figure out a way to let Ardyn know what’s happening without alerting Ignis.

Damn, he wishes he’d let Ardyn buy him a cellphone two years ago.

“Your Highness?” Ignis asks.

Somnus moves the knife to his other hand, wipes the sweat off his palm, and flips it back. Could he make a run for it? He might be fast enough to outrun Ignis and his lackeys on foot, but if they have vehicles hidden somewhere, that’ll be impossible. He has a bit of magic left from the elemental deposits he’d drained last night. Maybe those could…

“Noctis?”

“Don’t call me that,” Somnus spits. “It’s not my _name._ ”

“So you remember?” Ignis asks patiently. His voice grates against Somnus’s nerves. “Or were you told about your true identity?”

Somnus can feel the threat closing in. It’s do or die time. “You don’t know anything about my true identity,” he says slowly. He holds the knife out threateningly, the blade glinting under the scarce sunlight, hoping it’ll distract Ignis from what he’s doing with his other hand. “You don’t know who I am or what my name is. Whoever you think I am, whoever you knew me as, that person is gone.”

That, of all things, gets him a human reaction. Ignis’s expression twinges with the slightest articulation of pain. “Prince Noctis, please. Your father has been searching for you all this time.”

“Good for him.” Somnus casts the fire spell.

Fire is his least favorite element to wield. It’s angry and uncontrollable, burning away everything in its path. Smoke fills the air instantly. Somnus throws his shirt up over his face and bolts. He can hear Ignis shouting from behind the wall of flame, but his eyes are dead set on the idyllic little farm in the distance, past the golden wheat fields and gently bubbling spring.

“Ardyn!” he shouts. “Ardyn, get your ass out here!” Somewhere above him, a raven answers his call.

In the next moment, his legs buckle beneath him, and the sky is replaced with the dirt. Somnus coughs, struggling to stand, but a thin, strong rope is wrapped around his calves. Just as he reaches down to untangle it, a knee presses into his back.

Somnus growls and thrashes. Hands hold him down from all directions. A needle plunges into his arm. He _screams_.

Then silence.

\---

The moment Ardyn feels the explosion of magic at the edge of the fields, he sends the scourge out to investigate. It’s not uncommon for Noctis to practice his magic without Ardyn’s permission, senselessly using his power for the sheer joy of it, and Ardyn is content to let him believe it is a secret. He keeps peeling potatoes as the scourge flies along, certain that Noctis is simply messing around instead of working. Again.

Then the scourge rears back with a hiss, and he hears Noctis scream, and Ardyn is out the door a half-second later.

The scourge builds little lacework webs over the ground ahead of him, hiding in the shadows of grass and wheat. As such, the darkness sees their foe before Ardyn does; burly men and women with blades strapped to their sides, dressed in black.

Kingsglaive. And with them, the little brat Regis took as a surrogate son.

Ardyn snarls. He’d made preparations against the Lucian search effort—planted evidence to make them look far from the farm, used his illusions to hide Noctis’s presence early on. How they found them here, after all this time, he knows not; but for his brother’s sake, Ardyn _will_ eliminate them.

Even if Noctis would be better off returning to Insomnia.

The scourge slams into the man holding Noctis down first. Ardyn grunts with forgotten pain as he absorbs the memories of the dying man _(don’t worry mom, it’s just a reconnaissance gig. i’ll be back before you know it),_ accepting a new daemon into his fold. How long has it been since he last daemonified a living thing? Months? Years?

A bullet flies past his head. Ardyn shifts, falling immaterial. He slides through the shadow to strike another soldier from behind _(finally. one more mission, and i can go on leave. it’s been forever since i had a vacation),_ forcing the scourge through her veins. His neck turns to smoke again a moment before a blade strikes it, and he parries, taking out a third _(i can’t believe how beautiful she looks in that dress)_. The newborn daemons writhe on the ground, their skin spattered with boils that sizzle under the light of the sun. Ardyn directs the three to resist their instincts, to stay out of the shadows and fight, so he can tend to Noctis.

The boy has been injected with something—a tranq, no doubt—and it’s left him dazed and more or less incoherent. As Ardyn props him up, he mumbles something. Ardyn shushes him as he seeks out the wound. Noctis refuses to relent. It takes Ardyn half a minute to realize Noctis is muttering _his_ name; he can’t stop himself from cringing.

Ardyn blocks the incoming gunfire with his armiger of swords as the daemons continue to fight _(thank you for giving me a second chance, your majesty. i won’t let you down)._ He finds the needle mark on Noctis’s right arm. Ardyn touches it; he can sense the drug inching its way through Noctis’s veins.

Healing a small prick like this is no trouble, but the drug is another story. Ardyn’s healing capabilities aren’t what they used to be, degraded from two thousand years of disuse and the scourge’s contamination. Ardyn could _technically_ run the scourge itself through Noctis’s veins, directing it to eat every drop of the drug, but that could expose him to infection. Not a great risk, given Ardyn’s skill at controlling the scourge, but a risk nonetheless.

Behind them, a scream cuts short _(welcome to the world, baby. papa loves you very much)._

Ardyn groans, feeling a migraine coming on. The daemons are dying already, succumbing to the sunlight. He needs to come up with a plan to get Noctis somewhere safe, and fast. The farmstead is no good. Perhaps Niflheim? If he can keep them hidden long enough on the way there, he could bribe or blackmail Verstael into hiding them, if the old coot is still alive.

A dagger strikes the ground beside him. He peers over his shoulder, struggling to keep the scourge from twisting his face into a snarl. Regis’s surrogate child draws another blade from his jacket. The glaives that remain have culled the daemons, leaving the scourge to dissipate into the morning air.

“Chancellor Izunia,” Scientia mutters. “I suspected this.”

“Oh, did you now?” Ardyn says. He draws himself up slowly, refusing to turn around lest he expose Noctis to any gunfire. His armiger has never been incredibly powerful, and already its ability to block incoming bullets is fading. It’s no matter; Ardyn doesn’t mind using himself as a shield. His body will heal easily. Noctis’s will not. “Tell me. How did you find this place?”

“I have no reason to answer you.” Scientia murmurs an order for the glaive to retreat. Ardyn raises a brow. Giving them an opening, is he? No, that couldn’t possibly be it. Perhaps he simply knows he’s been outmatched.

Once the glaives are gone, Scientia steps forward. “I believe, given the circumstances, negotiation may be in our best interests.”

“I think not,” Ardyn says. He readies the scourge, preparing to shadow-travel. If he can make it to the tree line, where he can summon stronger daemons in the shadow, they’ll be able to get past the mountains. Then to Niflheim.

Ardyn grimaces. Would Noctis be happy in such a cold, desolate place? He tightens his grip. The wind blows harshly.

“The entire area has been surrounded by the glaive,” Scientia continues. “They are all highly experienced in warping, magic, and weapon summoning. You’ll not escape from here.”

“You’d risk harming your precious prince?”

“Would you, Accursed?”

Ardyn turns sharply. Scientia’s blade is still drawn, but it’s pointing at the ground. His green eyes are narrowed. The clouds blanket the sky above them—an oblivion of white and gray.

“You’re familiar with the prophecy, then,” Ardyn says.

“As familiar as any Lucis Caelum would be,” Scientia replies. “I know Adagium is one of the royal family, a man who commands the scourge and the armiger. What I don’t know is how such a villain became the Imperial Chancellor, and quite frankly, I do not care.”

Ardyn’s irises flicker. He strains to keep the scourge from filling up his tear ducts and streaking down his face. He has to keep his cool, for Noctis’s sake. Just one drop splashing on his skin would be the end of it. He has to protect his brother.

Though, in the end, what is he protecting him for, truthfully?

Scientia is still talking. “Our mission here is to recover His Highness and return him to Insomnia unharmed. We do not owe you the same courtesy. However,” he pauses, licks his lips. He’s hiding it well, but Ardyn can plainly see the nervousness lingering beneath his stoic expression. “If you hand over His Highness, we will not impede your departure.”

Isn’t Ardyn only keeping him alive to kill him later, to lead him to Bahamut’s maw? Naturally, that’s always what he intended to do. To fulfill the prophecy on his own terms, to take some semblance of control over his fate. Yet as he stands at the threshold, facing the Lucian royal line’s last few months on this star, it doesn’t feel as satisfying as he imagined it would.

Scientia raises his dagger. “Do you have an answer? We can hardly stand here all day.”

“On the contrary, I believe I could,” Ardyn says, but he isn’t paying attention to the Scientia boy. He isn’t paying attention to him, or the glaive, or the white sky or the wind or the swaying stalks of wheat. He’s thinking, as he’s been wont to do these days, about the past. About Somnus.

Planning another’s death. Waiting for the right time, the right theatrics, the right atmosphere. Playing it out like it’s theatre and not real life, as if sorrow and pain is naught but a mask.

Ardyn looks down at Noctis’s face, troubled in sleep, and coos, “I’m just the same as him now, aren’t I?”

“Izunia,” Scientia warns.

“My _dearest_ prince,” Ardyn says warmly. The swords hanging around him dissipate into air. The Rakshasa is the last to disappear—as it fades, the sky shines through it, and for a split second the red metal looks blue. “It seems we have much to discuss. Care for a drink?”

\---

It’s a struggle to wake up. Somnus groans—his head is pounding, his eyes crusty with sleep. He stretches out each muscle one at a time, trying to find the source of tension in his body and dispel it. For a few moments, he lays there, eyes shut, struggling against the sluggishness. Somewhere far away, people are talking; two men, from the sound of it. One of them is Ardyn—Somnus knows his voice anywhere—and the other, well. It’s familiar, but he isn’t sure. It sounds like…

Somnus’s eyes snap open. It’s the soldier from before. _Ignis_.

He scrambles out of bed. His headache worsens with movement, screaming a chorus in the back of his skull, but he ignores it. The hallway is spinning, and Somnus grasps the wall to keep upright. Everything hurts too much to speak. A few painful steps later, and Somnus is crashing into something warm and solid.

“Are you alright?” Ardyn’s familiar voice rumbles through him.

“Ardyn, there’s—we have to get out of here, they—”

“Shh, now, I know. I’m taking care of it. Don’t you worry about a thing.” Ardyn picks him up from where he’s slid down to the floor—when did that happen?—and presses a hand to his forehead. “You need more sleep. Back to your room.”

“Is His Highness well?” Ignis asks from behind Ardyn, and Somnus shoves away.

“You!” he shouts. His vision is still spotting, but he recognizes that face regardless. “What are you doing here, you bastard?!”

The soldier flinches. Ardyn shushes Somnus. “Come now. You need rest.”

“Like hell I do—not when there’s an enemy in our house—!” Somnus growls, trying to lunge past Ardyn, but his brother holds him back. “Ardyn, gods dammit, let me fight!”

“You haven’t a reason to fight. We’re only having a friendly discussion.” Ardyn picks him up easily, carrying him back to his room. Somnus can see Ignis over his brother’s shoulder; he’s watching them with his hands at his sides and a look akin to pain on his face.

“It’s as he says, Your Highness,” he says. “I am not here to hurt you or… or your brother. You can rest at ease.”

“How… can I…!”

“Noctis, don’t make this more difficult than it must be,” Ardyn says. The use of the false name has Somnus’s blood running cold. “Sleep now.”

“But—!”

Ardyn’s hand descends over his eyes. This time, the words come inflected with a spell. _“Sleep.”_

Somnus struggles. Somehow, he knows something awful will happen if he falls asleep. He’ll wake up and Ardyn will be dead, or gone, or it’s _Somnus_ who will be gone, stolen away to a place far from mountains and valleys and rivers. He wants to believe, after everything, Ardyn wouldn’t let that happen. He wants to believe his brother will keep his promise; wherever they go, they go _together._

Ardyn hums a lullaby. Sleep takes hold of Somnus like shackles. Before he passes out, he sees the imprint of a memory, a man with green eyes and black hair and a silver crown smiling down at him.

\---

When the Chancellor returns to the living room, Ignis regards him with distrust. “Is His Highness truly unharmed?”

Chancellor Izunia shrugs and falls on the couch with a kind of sloppy grace. “T’was your own drugs that incapacitated him, was it not? Shouldn’t you know the effects?”

“We anticipated he’d be treated in a hospital upon waking,” Ignis says. He doesn’t trust the Chancellor as far as he can throw him, but as long as Prince Noctis is safe, he’ll play along. “He could do with an IV. He’s likely dehydrated.”

Izunia waves a hand. “Yes, well, that will have to wait. Now, back to negotiations.”

Ignis frowns. He doesn’t like how difficult Izunia is to read; he can’t determine whether the man genuinely cares for Prince Noctis. He can’t tell what he wants, or what rhetoric will work on him, if any. Not knowing one’s opponent is a dangerous position for a diplomat to be in.

He folds his arms behind his back, military style, and tilts his chin up. “His Majesty is willing to offer a variety of territorial concessions and resources in exchange for His Highness’s safe return.”

“Such pedantics. Can we not simply call them _Regis_ and _Noctis_?”

Ignis’s frown deepens in annoyance. “No. _You_ may not.”

Izunia sighs and shrugs again. “Fine, fine. Back to business.” He folds one leg over the other, looking downright regal despite his dirt stained overalls and working boots. “You’ll be happy to hear I am willing to return the little princeling to you. I won’t even ask for much in the way of payment.”

Ignis doesn’t believe that for a moment. “Oh?”

“You see, I’m no longer associated with the Niflheimr government,” Izunia says. “As you may have guessed, I stole the prince away due to a, ah, _family conflict._ I was concerned his upbringing would have been inadequate.”

“His Majesty is an excellent father,” Ignis says through gritted teeth, “and the Citadel has the best equipped pediatric hospital, nursing staff, and schooling program in Eos.”

“Yes, and I merely have this farm. Not much to offer, is it?” He looks out the window; Ignis waits several seconds before following his gaze, lest the Chancellor attack him while he’s distracted. The sun is still hidden behind clouds. Beyond the garulas, sheep, and chocobos out grazing over the rolling hills, the glaive are waiting for Ignis’s instructions. “This simple life is more than meets the eye, though I don’t expect a city boy like you to understand.”

“I am certain there are some benefits,” Ignis says. He can guess where this is heading. He doesn’t want to give Izunia any ground to justify kidnapping a child, but pushing too hard could make him angry and put His Highness in danger. _Patience,_ he reminds himself. _Patience and balance._

“As there are some benefits to living in the Citadel, I’m sure.” Izunia chuckles. “And yet… perhaps there are too many consequences in stealing a child away from his family. Perhaps I ought to have taken him when he was but a babe.”

Ignis’s muscles lock up with fury. He’s still coaching himself to calm down, resisting the urge to draw a weapon, when Izunia stands. He’s tall, but no taller than Gladio, and Ignis has faced far scarier things—his parents’ graves, Regis’s disappointment, an eight-year-old Iris with a pair of scissors—without losing his nerve. He forms the hilt of a dagger out of the armiger as Izunia approaches.

He stops just a foot away, and laughs outright. “Nay, that isn’t right either. I should have left him be.”

“...what?” The dagger slips out of Ignis’s hand. He grabs at it, keeping it hidden behind his back as he reaffirms his grip.

“It…” Izunia shrugs. He seems at a loss of what to say, which strikes Ignis as both disingenuous _and_ too uncharacteristic to be false. “Well, you should know it, as an _honorary_ Lucis Caelum. Family is so difficult to parse for us, isn’t it?” He waves a hand through the air. “My terms are this: treat Noctis well. Ensure he is of good physical health. And by the blasted gods, send him to one of those mind doctors of yours. He likely needs it.”

“You want nothing else?” Ignis asks. He’s still skeptical, and yet, there’s something in that expression, tired and earnest and bitter, that makes him lower his guard. “No territories, no shipment of mythril, no offshore fishing rights? _Nothing_?”

“Nothing but a guarantee of Noctis’s happiness,” Izunia says, “at least until the time comes when he must fulfill his destiny.”

Ignis sheathes the dagger. He presses his headset and orders for the glaive to stand down. Izunia is staring down the hall, gazing listlessly at what Ignis supposes has been Noctis’s bedroom for the past eighteen years. As far as homes go, this is hardly the worst, and despite Izunia’s admission that Noctis has suffered enough to require therapy while under his care, the prince clearly has a fierce loyalty to his captor. That could be the result of extreme abuse, or Izunia being a genuinely kind and affectionate caregiver.

He’s not sure which option worries him more.

“His Highness doesn’t seem overly thrilled at the prospect of coming home,” Ignis says.

“Surely not! _This_ is his home, you see. It’s the only one he remembers. I’ve tried to tell him of his past, but it’s all for naught; he cares for nothing but the now.”

“And whose fault is that?” Ignis hisses.

Izunia scoffs. “Oh, piss off. I know my sins. I hardly require the judgement of a stuck-up pretender.” Ignis considers stabbing him regardless, just for the hell of it. “Anyhow, you have a point. I shall handle Noctis. Wait outside for a bit, would you?”

“No,” Ignis says.

Izunia rolls his eyes. “As you like it, then.” Ignis follows him to the door. He leans back against the wall next to it, wary to allow Noctis to see his face again. If Izunia is being truthful, if he can convince Noctis to be less aggressive, then there might be hope for this operation yet. Ignis can only pray it so.

Izunia draws his shoulders back, and opens the door. “And so it ends.”

“For you,” Ignis says. “Not for him.”

“I dearly hope not.”

Thirty minutes later, when Noctis is sobbing and screaming at Izunia, cursing him and the rest of the world to high heaven, Ignis regrets not leaving the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know why everyone is so suspicious of ardyn! he's done his best!! ...mostly! okay not really  
> oh boy i've been itching to get to this part of the story for ages you guys have NO idea
> 
> as always thank you so much for all your comments and feedback!!! lots of love and stay safe everyone <3


	8. Chapter 8

It all happens too quickly to register.

After Ardyn finishes double-speaking, Somnus packs a backpack. Space is limited; he spends thirty minutes sifting through his things, deciding to take something only to throw it at the wall in anger when some happy memory of him and Ardyn surfaces. The entire time, Ardyn watches him from the doorway, staring passively.

Somnus’s eyes are red and his hands are shaking, but he stubbornly refuses to let any more tears shed. Tears did nothing to convince Ardyn to keep his oath and let Somnus stay, and he refuses to give Ignis the satisfaction of seeing him cry. He wishes he could just be angry, could hold onto his hate for the Lucians who attacked and drugged him, but it’s all melting away in the face of Ardyn abandoning him after promising so many times he wouldn’t.

When Somnus finally leaves his room, he keeps his eyes trained on the ground. He inspects Ardyn’s scuffed work boots, Ignis’s leather dress shoes, and his own dirty sneakers as he stomps out of his childhood home. Shadows cast by clouds drift over the farm, bringing with them the promise of rain.

Their two sheepdogs perk up from their place in the yard. They run up to Somnus, yipping in excitement. They must be antsy with all the strangers around; Somnus can see the soldiers behind wood posts and bushes, despite how they try to hide. Black doesn’t blend well into green and brown.

“Hey,” he says, dropping to his knees. The dogs’ tails wag. They’re the grandchildren of his and Ardyn’s first dogs, the ones who watched over him as he toddled around the yard. He can barely remember them now. “I won’t be gone forever, okay? Don’t worry about me.”

Footsteps fall behind him. Ignis clears his throat, then asks, “are you ready to go, Your Highness?”

Somnus nearly screams. No, he isn’t _ready._ How could he be ready for _this,_ for being ripped apart from his home, his family, with no way out? He can’t run, can’t refuse. He already promised Ardyn to give things a try, and while he’d argue he was under duress at the time, Somnus isn’t like Ardyn. He isn’t a liar.

He keeps his promises.

“Why now?” Somnus murmurs. “Everything was going to be _fine,_ so why…”

“Your Highness?”

Somnus Izunia stands. He doesn’t look back. Instead he looks at his sheepdogs, his chocobos in their barn. His sheep, his garulas. His little farmstead, his wide open skies, all gold and blue and perfect. All of it part of a life he won’t lead again for a long time. Maybe forever.

Even without checking, he knows Ardyn is watching from the doorway. With an unexpected viciousness, Somnus hopes this is hurting him.

“Goodbye, Ardyn,” he shouts. His voice is hoarse from the crying.

Ardyn’s response is measured and emotionless. “Til we meet again, little prince.”

\---

The car they’ve brought to cart Somnus back to Insomnia screams affluence. The exterior is sleek black, and Somnus nearly sinks into the plush seats. He fits his backpack in his lap, crushed against his chest. Keeping his muscles firmly clenched around it is the only way he can stop himself from trembling.

Ignis’s seatbelt _clicks_ as he fastens it. Somnus doesn’t know what to make of him; he looks less out of place here, in this mobile environment of luxury, but there’s something about him that still feels off. It’s like he’s unsure of himself, carefully considering each movement before he makes it, each word before he speaks. It reminds Somnus of the way he moves in the presence of deer, trying not to frighten the skittish animals.

It’s patronizing as hell.

Ignis coughs. “Your Highness, please buckle yourself in.”

Somnus glares.

“It’s for your safety,” Ignis says. “If you refuse to fasten the seatbelt yourself, I will do it for you.”

Somnus spends too much time debating whether continuing to be difficult is worth sacrificing his personal space. Ignis makes the choice for him, reaching across Somnus’s chest to grab the seatbelt hanging by his shoulder. The hairs on the back of his neck rise at the unwelcome closeness. They don’t go down even after Ignis pulls away.

The driver, a woman in an unfamiliar uniform, clears her throat. “Your Highness, we’re all clear to head out.”

Somnus is about to snap when Ignis says, “proceed. We’ll want to be back in Insomnia by sunset.”

Confusion and curiosity settle in. Somnus almost wants to ask about the title, but his throat has dried up. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling anymore; anger, despair, grief. Discomfort. It’s all too difficult and complicated to parse through while his brain is melting.

The car starts moving. Even driving over the cracked, pothole covered country road, the rise is seamless. Somnus must spend more time that he realizes spacing out, because when Ignis addresses him again, he jumps.

“What?” Somnus sputters. His eyes widen when he sees they’ve already long passed the mountains. He doesn’t recognize the landscape outside the window.

“Your Highness?” Ignis asks again, sounding concerned.

Somnus doesn’t like it. He sounds too much like Ardyn, strangely enough, and the correlation is as unwelcome as it is disturbing. “Quit that. I’m not a prince.”

“You haven’t been raised as one, no, but you are still blood of the King,” Ignis says.

The reminder that he’s being dragged away by people who attacked him and his brother to be thrown into a _new_ family makes his blood boil. “So if I bleed myself dry, you’ll stop calling me that?” Somnus snaps.

Ignis’s wince is shitty compensation for losing everything he loves. “Kindly do not.”

Somnus doesn’t want to talk to Ignis anymore; he doesn’t like the guy, not only because of everything he’s done, but also because he’s been almost nice, and the dichotomy makes his stomach turn. But he doesn’t want to drift off again, either. Watching the passing farms makes him feel like crying, and he isn’t going to invite scrutiny by opening his backpack, so talking is his only option.

“So, what’s up with you, ‘your highness’?” Somnus says. He keeps his eyes firmly on his own lap.

“I was adopted by His Majesty King Regis nine years ago,” Ignis says. “As such, I share your rank as a prince of Lucis.”

Oh no. Oh _fuck_ no. If he has any illusion of them being _brothers,_ Somnus has to shatter it. “Seriously? If he’s already _replaced_ me, what the hell does he want me back for?!”

“He—he did not _replace_ you,” Ignis says. The horrified tone in his voice forces Somnus to look; he doesn’t know how to contend with the blatant hurt on Ignis’s face. “His Majesty would never. Regis was—is—an excellent father. He wants you back because you are his son, and he cares for you. He _loves_ you.”

Somnus squirms. “That’s… He doesn’t even know me.”

“He knew you from the moment you were born til the moment you were taken away from him,” Ignis says. “Your Highness… no, Noctis. Please give him a chance. It was never his intent to hurt you.”

The thought—that there is a man out there who loves Somnus as fiercely as Ardyn does, who has been missing and grieving him for so long—it’s been torturing Somnus since Ardyn told him about his father weeks ago. The horrible, awful truth is there’s some part of Somnus that wants to believe Ignis, wants to believe he has a dad who loves him. But that part is at war with the part of himself that’s in tune with reality, the part that knows those two worlds are irreconcilable. The farm and the palace. The King and his brother. Somnus has read many stories; there are princes and there are paupers, but there’s no one who can be both.

Somnus grabs the place on his arm where it still stings from the needle. He already knows which world he’d rather live in.

He pointedly turns away from Ignis to stare out the window. An ocean of grass and trees stretches out to the distant horizon. Somnus’s unease worsens as green gives way to silver and gray, the unnatural colors of metal and concrete, signalling their passage from rural to urban spaces. The car rumbles quietly along. Ignis makes several calls over the phone, speaking lowly. Somnus specifically tries not to hear him.

Eventually, everything goes black.

\---

A hand on his shoulder wakes him up. For a brief moment, Somnus relaxes into it, before he remembers where he is, and who it must belong to.

Thankfully, Ignis backs off as far as he can in the limited space they have. “We’ve arrived at Insomnia, Noctis.”

The sun must have set already, because the inside of the car is a void of black. Burning white light outlines the buttons on the dash. It’s unpleasant against Somnus’s sleep-heavy eyes. He turns to look out the window, seeking the calming shades of night, and immediately regrets it.

The sun may have fallen, but Insomnia is no dimmer for it. City lights pulse like a heartbeat, shining in the darkness. Traffic lights and neon signs rapidly flicker from one color to another. Bright billboards look like burning trees in the distance. Somnus’s temples throb as a headache comes on hard and fast; he groans and presses his palms into his eyes.

“Noctis?” Ignis asks.

“Ugh, what now?” he snaps. It’s no good looking at Ignis, either. The city is just as vibrant outside his window as it is Somnus’s. The car speeds past a skyscraper with white lights cascading down its sides. Somnus shuts his eyes again; impressions of the light remain.

“Would you like an aspirin?” Ignis asks.

Somnus cracks his eyes open. “I’m fine. I don’t need it.”

Ignis looks unimpressed. “You’d rather come down with a migraine, then?”

“Maybe.”

Two minutes later, when they pass over a translucent bridge and Somnus can see the endless ocean of light beneath them, he holds out his hand and downs the offered pill.

“It’s so loud,” he mutters. His hands hurry to cover his ears, then back to his eyes.

“The engine?”

“No. Everything _but_ that.”

“I’ll arrange for a pair of noise cancelling headphones to be delivered to your rooms,” Ignis says sympathetically. Somnus resists the urge to shout he _has_ a pair. A pair Ardyn gave to him.

But he hadn’t thought to bring them, so they’re back home, and very far away.

“We’re approaching the Citadel,” the driver says.

Somnus peers out through the cracks in his fingers. If nothing else, the area around the Citadel is darker, lacking any neon signs or advertisements. Somnus has seen pictures of the monolith in his books before; it’s an impenetrable metal fortress, shackled with gates and walls. A bastille to protect the royals within—or a prison to keep them from leaving.

They coast through a round-a-bout. As soon as the car rolls to a stop, Ignis opens his door. Somnus grabs his door handle, then hesitates. It feels like he’s standing before a precipice. His stomach drops.

“Noctis,” Ignis says, “The longer you delay, the harder it will be. Better to rip the bandaid off quickly.”

“Whatever,” Somnus huffs, but the words do push him out the door.

The first step Somnus takes in the city he was born turns into a stumble. The Citadel is tall—horribly tall— _disgustingly_ tall. Looking up at it makes him sick. He nearly faceplants onto the impeccably clean concrete when an arm wraps around his waist and catches him.

The fear of another needle plunging into his arm has him scrambling to get away. He shoves hard against the man keeping him upright, overbalances and stumbles back against the car. Instantly he gets the urge to apologize. As much as he hates everything and everyone in this city, Ardyn taught him to say please and thank you and _not_ push people who save him from busted lips.

“Sorry,” he says. His cheeks burn. “I mean, thanks. For. You know.”

The man nods. He’s not wearing a uniform, but his clothes are entirely monochrome. “Do you need further assistance, Your Highness?”

Somnus does his best not to let his mood sour any more than it already has. “I’m good, thanks.”

This time, he braces himself against the side of the car when he looks up at the Citadel. Even straining his neck as far back as he can, Somnus can’t see the top. It’s a mountain, lined with matte windows and thick pillars that disappear into the darkness.

Somnus feels strangely lonely when he sees the city night sky is devoid of stars.

The rest of the courtyard is just as ostentatious; gothic-style black gates, a red carpet falling gently over the stairs. In the center of the round-a-bout sits a stage. Everything is decorated with inlaid gold. All of it screams mindless luxury.

Dozens of footsteps shuffle out around them as the soldiers take their leave. Somnus catches some of them glaring at him; he glares right back. He inches further away when Ignis comes around to speak in hushed tones with the man in black and gray. They keep glancing over at him. His eyes narrow.

Whatever they’re whispering about, they must finish, because Ignis meets his eyes again. “Noctis, this is Marshal Cor Leonis, head of the Crownsguard. They are—”

“A royal guard whose duty is to protect the Citadel and its occupants, and cooperate with police to keep order in the city,” Somnus recites. He turns his nose up at Cor. “So you’re a soldier, too. Should have figured.”

“Your Highness,” Cor says again, and wow, Somnus is really starting to regret thanking him, “before you meet with His Majesty, the medical staff would like to asses your health, and ensure all injuries suffered during your retrieval have healed.”

“I feel like shit,” Somnus says. Ignis sighs.

“Then we might as well get this over with soon. Don’t you agree?” Cor says. His tone is an odd mixture of commanding and concerned. It…

…it reminds him of Ardyn.

Shit. His heart hurts. He _misses_ him. After what Ardyn did to him, he misses him.

Somnus nods. They begin climbing the stairs. Each step Somnus takes towards his new “home” feels like a step towards his execution. Ignis keeps glancing back at him. Somnus doesn’t see the point; he has no where to run.

He rubs at his eyes furiously. He won’t show any weakness here. It’s not something he can afford.

He’ll be as strong as he can manage, until he finds a way to escape these walls and go back home.

\---

After a truly awkward medical examination that takes way too long for comfort, Cor escorts him to his rooms. Plural. The path they take has been completely cleared of staff, and it involves so many twists and turns there’s no way Somnus will remember how to get there on his own. Each hallway looks exactly the same; the same art, same curtains, same engravings in the stone walls. The only breakup in the maddening uniformity is when they reach what Cor calls _the royal apartments._

Relatively speaking, the royal hallway is much shorter than the others. It contains around two dozen massive doors, the most grand of which, Cor explains, leads to His Majesty’s rooms. Gooseflesh raises on Somnus’s arms as they pass it.

Second is Ignis’s rooms, and third is his own. Or rather, they’re the rooms he’s being allowed to stay in, because Somnus refuses to think of them as _his._ He already has a bedroom, thank you very much. He doesn’t need a second.

He also doesn’t need the foyer, sitting room, office, and small dining area that comes with it.

It’s all decorated in black and gold, and completely devoid of personality. They feel templated. Hollow. Somnus clutches his backpack. His things will scarcely fill one corner of this space.

“Your meeting with His Majesty is in one hour,” Cor says. “Take the time to clean up and get comfortable. Fresh clothes have been placed in the closet for you. If you have any questions about the facilities, you can call the servants using the bell system.” He gestures to a lever on the wall. “Ignis is also currently in his rooms, if you’d rather ask his help.”

“I don’t need anyone’s help. Just ‘cause I was raised in the country doesn’t mean I’m an idiot,” Somnus says stubbornly.

“I never suggested it did.” Cor doesn’t say anything for just long enough Somnus starts to shift from foot to foot. Is he supposed to do something? Say something? Fuck, is Somnus supposed to _dismiss_ him?

Right as he’s about to recite some antiquated line from the history novels he’s read, Cor smiles at him. He holds out a hand, as if to place it on Somnus’s shoulder. “It’s a relief to have you back home, Noctis.”

Somnus cringes and backs away. Cor’s arm drops to his side. His smile is replaced by a blank slate.

“I’ll be back to fetch you momentarily,” he says. “No one expects you to adjust so soon, Your Highness. Let me know if anything makes you uncomfortable.”

Somnus nearly laughs out loud.

Not ‘anything.’ Everything.

 _Everything_ makes him uncomfortable.

He says nothing, and Cor leaves.

Somnus grabs a pair of navy blue pants and a white shirt from the closet and takes them and his backpack to the bathroom. He’s not going to risk anyone coming in while he’s bathing and stealing what little he has left. The tub is bigger than his entire room at home, with ten separate nozzles on the wall. Thankfully, someone has left out a paper for him, detailing what every knob is for. It still takes Somnus nearly fifteen minutes to figure it out.

Once he gets the hot water flowing, he relaxes for just long enough to wash down.

He leaves the bathroom dressed in the unfamiliar clothes, with nearly twenty minutes to spare. The idea of sitting and doing nothing isn’t particularly attractive, so Somnus dumps the contents of his backpack on the bed and starts moving in.

The bedroom is exuberant, with an impossibly high ceiling, wide windows, a four poster bed laden with black sheets, and glossy wood furniture. Pieces of decor are scattered around the room—a bushel of flowers here, a hand mirror there—but for the most part, it’s empty of anything meaningful. When Somnus inspects the windows, he finds they can’t be opened. When he halfheartedly pushes them, they hold strong.

First, Somnus puts his dirtied clothes in the hamper just outside the closet, labelled _to be cleaned_. His boots are dropped next to it. Then he goes about sorting his things.

Three of his chosen items are books; one is a small but heavy tome on the history of Solheim, a gift for his seventh birthday. The second is an encyclopedia of plants; pressed between the pages are dried specimens Somnus picked as a teenager. He skims through his precious collection with dismay, wondering if he’ll ever see wild plants again. The third is a book of children’s poetry, which Ardyn used to read from when he was a child. All three are placed in the nightstand drawer, safe and out of sight.

The next item is a t-shirt Ardyn had bought him in Lestallum during their visit so many years ago. There’s a slightly faded chocobo on it, shouting the phrase _mother clucker_. Somnus folds the shirt up in the closet. It’s the only thing in the room that looks worn.

Last is an old friend. Somnus squeezes the tonberry plush to his chest for five painful seconds before setting it down against the pillows. If he only looks at those pillows, he might be able to pretend this room actually belongs to someone, not the idea of a person who doesn't exist anymore.

A knock shocks Somnus out of his daydreaming. He panics. He thought he still had ten minutes or so before Cor came back. He isn't ready to meet his fa—that is, the King—yet. Somnus considers trying the windows again, or drowning himself in the bathtub. Maybe he can pretend he's suddenly come down with the stomach flu. The King won't want to see him if he's hacking his guts up everywhere, right?

The knock comes again, accompanied by a formal, "Noctis, may I come in?"

Somnus scoffs, slumping back over on the bed. It's only Ignis.

He doesn't give Ignis permission to enter, but the door opens and shuts anyway. Somnus sits on the bed stubbornly as Ignis rolls a cart into the bedroom. He's changed into a purple dress shirt and black pants, his hair slicked back. Somnus begrudgingly admits he looks stylish, and significantly less out of place than he does. Ignis's gaze flickers over the tonberry briefly before coming back to Somnus's face.

"I thought you might like a snack," he says, removing the lid. On the platter sits half a dozen plump pastries. The smell is mouthwatering. Somnus's stomach growls, reminding him he hasn't eaten since this morning. "They have ulwaat berry filling. Try one, if you like."

"How do I know they’re not drugged?" Somnus mutters. The flaky crust looks positively mesmerizing. Somnus can't remember the last time he saw food so perfectly crafted.

"I know our aquaintance didn't start off on the best foot, but…" Ignis removes his glasses and cleans them on his shirt. "What's the point in pussyfooting? It went awfully. I am deeply sorry. It was never my intention to bring you to any harm.”

Somnus doubts that.

Ignis sighs. “I know that must be difficult to believe, but it’s true. Noctis you must realize—everyone in this castle loves you deeply. The happiness in the air when you were discovered alive was… well. We all simply want what’s best for you.”

“And ‘best’ meant abducting me and ruining my life?” Somnus snaps. “Why couldn’t you just let us be?! It’s been eighteen years! Why not just _forget_ me?”

Ignis doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then he takes a pastry off the platter and offers it to Somnus. “I don’t have any answers. Perhaps it would have been better to let sleeping dogs lie. But even if you have forgotten Regis, there is no way he could ever forget you.”

Hunger wins over anger and hurt. Somnus takes the pastry and inspects it. The flaky crust is warm against his palm.

“I can’t imagine what this must feel like for you,” Ignis continues. “And I’m sure Izunia… Ardyn… raised you as best he could. Even so, you can have more than one family, Noctis. You can give Regis a chance.”

“I don’t have a family anymore,” Somnus mutters. He bites into the pastry. The filling is bittersweet on his tongue. “Everyone’s abandoned me.”

“I understand,” Ignis says. “I used to feel the same.”

For the first time since he met Ignis, Somnus feels something akin to camaraderie. He shuffles around on the bed, bites into the pastry again. Savors the crunch of glazed sugar cracking between his teeth.

“I want to go home,” Somnus says, voice small.

Ignis hesitantly sits on the bed next to him. He picks up a pastry from the tray and tucks in. “Yes, well. I can't say I want you to stay here.”

Somnus turns on him harshly. “You expect me to believe that after all the shit you pulled getting me here?”

“It’s true,” Ignis says. “Truthfully, I’m jealous of you. Your return has dethroned me, so to speak. Regis can say he cares for me as a son, and I believe him, but you will always be his priority.”

“...why?”

“The bond between parent and child is... it isn't something that can be explained. Not to someone who has never experienced it.”

“What about the bond between brothers?” Somnus asks, throat dry.

Ignis looks at him carefully. Somnus wants to crawl under the bed and never come out. “It’s special in its own way.”

Somnus eats two more pastries before Ignis covers them up again, saying he’ll give himself a toothache. They wait awkwardly in the bedroom together, waiting for Cor to arrive. Ignis keeps checking the clock on the wall. Somnus stares out the window. They’re so high up, the sky is a never ending expanse of black, untouched by skyscrapers. It looks like someone has taped black paper over the outside of the glass.

A knock at the door startles both of them. Ignis clears his throat. “Well, off we go, then.”

“Wait a minute.” Somnus grabs him by the sleeve. It’s the first time he’s willingly touched someone in nearly a day. “Let’s get one thing straight.”

He waits for Ignis to acknowledge him, to make sure he’s listening. “Yes?”

“My name is Somnus. Somnus _Izunia_. So quit it with all this ‘Noctis’ crap.”

Ignis considers him for a minute. “Right then, Somnus. Shall we go meet the King?”

\---

 _This is a waste of time._ Regis readjusts his posture. He’s been waiting ever since Noctis returned to the Citadel—no, he’s been waiting ever since Noctis _left._ Waiting and waiting and waiting. And now, with merely a few minutes left to go, the wait is more torturous than ever.

“I know it is,” he cedes. The Ring pulses with sparkles of blue light. “But what would you have me do? Don’t tell me you expected another outcome.”

 _I expected you to ensure the child would fulfill his destiny. Not cry over him like some sentimental old man._ Regis grimaces. The Lucii are often angry, but none wield wrath more dangerously than the Kings of Yore. _What does Ardyn see in such a pathetic child? He can hardly fight. His magic is weak. They both debase themselves doing peasants’ work. What a waste of royal blood._

“Are you jealous Adagium gave him your name?” Regis asks.

 _Foolish mortal,_ the Founder King seethes. _Naturally one who abandons his son would side with the traitor who abandoned his brother. You bring shame to our noble house, all of you._

“Shame,” Regis says, raising his head as the door opens, “is not a luxury a king can afford.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so, so much to mar for helping me fix this chapter. u saved the fic ;w;  
> edit 11/21/20: fixed some dialogue that was bothering me. holy crap this fic is... bad.


	9. Chapter 9

When he walks into the room, Somnus notices everything _but_ the King.

The opulence of the royal citadel is dizzying; ceilings are dusted over with paintings of gods and messengers, the walls lavished with artwork and satin black drapes. The room is larger than any of the ones at home, with several antique tables surrounded by black velvet couches and loveseats. A crystal tea set and tower of dainty looking finger food rest on one of the tables. Somnus spends several seconds gazing hungrily at the food before he notices the man standing behind it.

Regis is… not what he expected. Somnus had anticipated someone powerful, strong, with an intimidating aura to match Ardyn’s. Instead, the King of Lucis is nothing more than an old man wearing a nicely tailored suit. The only ornament that suggests his status is a thin silver crown nestled into his white hair, invisible if not for the light catching on it.

And, of course, he’s staring at Somnus with an expression so full of emotion it makes his stomach flip.

“Noctis,” Regis says. “Please, come and sit. You must be hungry.”

Without anything else to do, Somnus does as he’s asked. Regis settles on the couch opposite him, stacks a plate high with small sandwiches and cakes, and hands it over. Somnus takes the plate, and Regis pours him a cup of tea. He stares at the honeyed liquid in the cup. Though Ignis’s pastries had done little to alleviate his hunger, he feels like anything he tries to get down will come back up.

“How are you feeling?” Regis asks. Somnus is strangely hurt by the steadiness of his voice and face. It’s like someone wiped away all the emotion that had cluttered his expression mere moments before. “You aren’t harmed?”

“No,” Somnus says. “I mean, I’m good. Thanks.”

“Of course.” Regis sets his own tea down without taking a drink. Somnus does the same. “Forgive me. I don’t want to overwhelm you, but there are some things I’d like to say.”

Somnus shoves a little ham and cheese sandwich into his mouth. “‘kay.”

Regis folds his hands in his lap and leans forward. “I am trying to keep my expectations realistic. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you. I must ask, though. Do you remember me?”

“I don’t,” Somnus mutters, averting his eyes. “Sorry.”

“That’s quite alright. You were very young when you were taken.” Somnus can’t help but bristle. “Have you been well? Did you have a happy childhood?”

_“Here, take this. He’s a tonberry. He shall protect you.”_

_“Whatever you want, you shall have it. Whatever makes you happy. I’ll not let them take you away from me.”_

_“If you shan’t do this for yourself, do it for me, little prince. Promise me you’ll at least try to play nice.”_

Play nice. That’s why he can’t burn down the entire Citadel, why he can’t kill the man in front of him. Why he’s put up with all of this. He _promised._

“You promised,” Somnus whispers to himself.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Regis asks.

Somnus stands up. “Can I say something?”

“Always.”

“Just tell me one thing.” Against his own will, Somnus’s hands clench into fists. “What in the hell was the point of this?”

Regis’s brow furrows. “Noctis?”

“Don’t fucking call me that!” Somnus snaps. “It’s not my _name!”_

“Are you alright? Do you need to talk to someone?”

“I’m talking to you, aren’t I? Shit, just answer the question!” Regis opens his mouth, but Somnus doesn’t stop talking, he _can’t_ stop, he needs to verbalize this or he’s going to burst. “You know, I asked Ignis the same thing. He told me the ‘bond between parent and child’ is unexplainable. What does that even mean? Did you seriously destroy our lives for something you _can’t explain?!”_

“Noctis,” Regis says.

“Shut up!” Somnus screams. “Shut up, shut up, shut _up!_ That isn’t my godsdamned name!”

“Wait, please, breathe for a moment—”

“And you know what _else?_ I don’t need you!” The pain that flickers across Regis’s aged face sends a deep satisfaction through Somnus’s exhaustion-addled brain. “I don’t need you, or Ignis, or anyone else in this damn place. All I need is my brother, and you just _had_ to send your soldiers to _ruin_ him! This is all your fucking fault!” He feels angry tears stinging in his eyes. When he’d been forced to leave the farm, he wanted it to hurt Ardyn just as much as it hurt him. Now he realizes he only wants Ardyn to hurt if _he’s_ the one causing it. He’s the only one who knows Ardyn well enough to hurt him without destroying him. He knows everything there is to know about his brother.

“You even replaced me already,” Somnus says bitterly. “Ardyn would never. He’d never be able to pick up some other kid off the street and make him a… a spare. Did you ever love me?”

Regis doesn’t answer. He looks so broken, so forlorn, it makes Somnus’s heart sink into his gut. The guilt is unexpected and unbearable; Somnus can’t breathe. He needs to get out of this room, now.

“Don’t call for me again,” Somnus mutters, and turns away.

“Wait!” There’s a heavy thud of something hitting the floor. Somnus glances back, catching sight of a sleek black and gold cane on the ground. Regis is on his hands and knees next to it. He shakily stands and stumbles forward; Somnus is too burdened with shame to dodge the hand that grips his wrist, keeping him in place.

“I’m so sorry,” Regis gasps. He cups Somnus’s cheek. “I never wanted to cause you pain. All I wanted was my son back. I spent so long in the dark, not knowing if you were being harmed or dead, not knowing which fate was kinder. All I wanted was to find you, so I could keep you safe this time.”

Somnus stares, horrified, not knowing what to say.

“And damn it all,” Regis continues, “I know it’s selfish of me, but as much as I hate causing you such pain it’s worth it to see you all grown up, safe and sound. I love you so much, son. So much.”

This time, Somnus is saved from putting his foot in his mouth by Regis suddenly swaying forward, his eyes fluttering shut. Somnus shouts and grabs him by his arms. His body is heavy and unresponsive as Somnus drags him back to the couch. His hands shake. He has no idea what to do. Did Regis just faint? Did he have a heart attack? What if it’s _his_ fault? He scrambles to push Regis’s shirt collar out of the way, pressing two fingers to the pulse point on his neck. The rhythm is steady.

“Hey, wake up! Your Majesty—” Somnus gulps. “Dad. Please wake up.”

Regis’s eyes crack open. He smiles. “You look just like your mother.”

The words are cold water crashing over Somnus. He’d never even thought to ask about his mother, never wondered where the queen was.

Regis’s eyes close again, and he slumps over.

It takes Somnus approximately three seconds before he screams for help as loud as he can. The door bursts open, and in comes Cor. Somnus can’t imagine what he looks like in this moment; disheveled with red, puffy eyes, and the King of the entire country passed out next to him on the couch.

“What happened?” Cor asks. He marches over and grabs Regis’s hand, inspecting the ornate black ring on his finger. Somnus can’t grasp why Cor is touching it instead of Regis’s pulse point.

“I don’t know,” he says. “He just passed out. Is he okay? Is he…”

“He’s fine,” Cor says with shocking authority. “He hasn’t slept more than two hours in the past several days. He probably just fell asleep.”

Somnus shrinks under Cor’s ascertaining stare. “Why hasn’t he been sleeping?”

Cor’s response is immediate and guarded. “He was too busy worrying about you.”

"Oh."

He sits stock still as Cor calls for backup. A tall man with a gray buzzcut comes in and picks Regis up off the couch. They head for the door. Somnus shuffles into place behind them, leaving the still-warm tea and sandwiches on the table.

He wrings his hands as they walk. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him; one minute, all he could feel for Regis was contempt, and the next, he’s panicking at the thought of the man dying. A cold sweat spreads over his skin as he recalls a half-forgotten childhood memory, when Ardyn got sick and Somnus felt like his entire world was crashing down.

He can’t possibly feel that way about Regis. He must be tired, or hungry, or coming down with a fever. He cannot possibly care that much for someone he doesn’t know. Just acknowledging the possibility feels like he’s betraying Ardyn, somehow. Refusing to acknowledge it is just as much of a betrayal though, since Ardyn made him promise to _try._

They arrive back at the royal apartments before Somnus realizes it. His feet hurt. Cor guides him to the prince’s room, while the other man carries Regis into the King’s suite. Somnus is told very firmly not to leave his room until morning, and then he’s left alone.

It takes him ages to figure out how to lock the door using the keypad on the wall. With that done, he stumbles into the bedroom. The amount of black draped over everything makes it nearly impossible to see furniture in the shadows, but Somnus doesn’t feel like turning on the light. By the time he makes it to the bed, his knees and calves are covered in bruises. He feels around on the bed, grabbing fast when he touches the tonberry’s little felt shoe. Then, Somnus Izunia curls up against the pillows, clutching his childhood toy close, and desperately tries to focus on his own breathing.

Sometime before morning, he falls asleep.

\---

Gladio’s broadsword comes down hard.

Ignis grunts. Though he’s trained with them extensively, swords have never been his favorite weapon. He prefers daggers and polearms, long range attacks that provide him with more tactical options. Swordfighting, especially the up close and personal kind the royal family is fond of, has no room for error. A single mistake can be the difference between life or death.

But then, Ignis has never been one to make mistakes.

Gladio has the edge in physical strength, but Ignis is faster and has better endurance. He pushes hard on his next few swings. The bruise on his side from where Gladio clipped him earlier throbs in pain. Sweat pours down the back of his neck. Finally, several advances and blocks later, Gladio shoves him back and offers a draw. Ignis gladly takes it.

They collapse on the benches and break open a cooler. Gladio pours most of his water on his face instead of down his throat. Ignis sighs and offers his own in the interest of not letting his friend pass out from dehydration.

“So,” Gladio says, wiping his face with a towel. “What’s he like?”

Ignis adjusts his glasses. He considers telling Gladio about the conversation he and Noctis had the previous night, but he feels his Shield will misinterpret the prince’s concerns in the worst way possible. “His Highness has been through quite a bit. Give him time.”

“That doesn’t sound promising. I heard he hasn’t come out of his room at all today.”

“Anyone in his position would need time to adjust,” Ignis says. He does his best not to sound too annoyed. He knows Gladio is anxious about the situation, despite his refusal to show it. While he’s still Ignis’s Shield for the moment, it won’t be long before the swearing ceremony is conducted and he’ll be transferred to Noctis’s personal guard. Ignis hasn’t asked him how he feels about it on a personal level. There’s no need to complicate their delicate work-life balance more than necessary.

Right now, Gladio’s concerns are purely professional. He wants to know whether his new charge is someone worth dying for. It’s not an easy question to answer. It’s not a question Ignis is _qualified_ to answer.

“He has the Lucis Caelum fire,” is what he settles with.

“Guess that’s better than nothing,” Gladio says. “Is he getting along with His Majesty?”

“They spoke last night, but I wasn’t privy to the results of the meeting,” Ignis says. “Though Regis seemed uncharacteristically quiet this morning.”

The gym doors swing open. Ignis looks up briefly to see the glaive come in, with Commander Ulric in the lead. The soldiers look exhausted, and those that are still injured from yesterday’s fight are absent. Ulric smiles and waves at him and Gladio. They wave back.

“About His Highness,” Ignis says. The glaive take up position for their pre-training lecture, lined up at attention with their hands behind their backs. “He’s been raised under an assumed name. It wasn’t until recently that he learned of his royal heritage.”

“Don’t tell me you’re asking me to call the crown prince by a pseudonym,” Gladio says.

“That is precisely what I’m asking.”

“I don’t know, Iggy. Seems to me the sooner he gets past whatever happened to him out there, the better.”

“It’s in the interest of His Highness’s comfort and mental wellbeing,” Ignis says. “It’s only for the foreseeable future, Gladio.”

Gladio huffs. “Fine. If you think it’s for the best, I’ll follow your lead.”

“Thank you.”

Ignis had planned to elaborate on his position, to try and articulate exactly how important this is without breaking Noctis's confidence, but Gladio's sharp switch of attention from him to the glaives distracts him. He tunes in just in time to hear the end of Commander Ulric's pre-training speech. “No matter what happens on the field, we have to remember who we are and what he stand for. We fight for hearth and home, and for the royal family of Lucis. Don’t use our fallen comrades as an excuse to forget your vows. Now let’s get to work.”

"Not the most rousing call to action I've ever heard," Gladio says. "Guess he's gotta be tough on them. The glaive aren't as disciplined as the crownsguard."

"Well, they are from the outer territories," Ignis says.

For a while, they watch the glaive train. Ulric has them practicing weapons and magic today, so while half are casting spells, the others spar in close combat. The glaive go even harder than usual, fighting until they’re bleeding or burned; healing specialists take over after that, using the chance to hone their spells’ potency. Ignis notices a fair few of them focusing on defensive maneuvers to keep their sparring partners from touching them. He remembers Izunia’s blackened hands dissolving flesh and bone into scourge, dipping beneath the skin to taint the fallen glaives’ souls, and barely holds back a shiver.

“Hey, Iggy,” Gladio murmurs. “Was Adagium really that big a deal?”

Ignis nods. “More so than you can imagine.”

Gladio looks at the ground, his brows furrowed. “I’ll have to train harder, too.”

Ignis turns away from the depressing display the glaives are putting on and begins packing up his things. As he’s still officially the crown prince, he has a dozen items on his schedule today. His mind keeps drifting back to yesterday, though; rumors of who (or rather, _what_ ) was responsible for the prince’s abduction have spread through the military and domestic service of the Citadel despite the intelligence agency’s attempts to stamp it out. Ignis has overheard plenty of hushed speculation about the situation since waking up this morning, including some rather offensive insinuations that Noctis is infected with the scourge, despite his medical exam proving otherwise. The rumors are at best an insult to the royal family, and at worse actively dangerous to Noctis’s mental health. The last thing he needs right now is to overhear the servants discussing him.

Just as Ignis finishing packing up his workout gear, ready to head back to his room for a shower before his afternoon meeting with representatives from Leide, Gladio grabs his arm, and he hears a shout.

Three glaives have broken off from their sparring partners to gather in the middle of the mats. Ignis bristles when he hears what they’re talking about.

“That little brat wasn’t even grateful for what Cordelia, Arlo, and the rest did for him,” a woman says. She stabs the mat with her spear to make her point. “He didn’t even bother attending the ceremony His Majesty held this morning.”

“I’m kinda shocked the old man bothered,” a burly man with tattoos replies. “We’re just cannon fodder so the _real_ Lucians don’t have to fight.”

“The royals are just damned sociopaths. Bet even the Nifs don’t treat their soldiers this way.”

Before Gladio can do anything, Ignis hisses, “we’re affiliated with the royal family. Interfering will only make things worse.”

Gladio frowns, but doesn’t move.

At that moment, Ulric arrives to break up the impromptu meeting. Ignis watches closely, focusing less on Ulric’s lecture, and more on the glaives' reaction to it. The three fall into line and accept their punishment without argument, but they don’t look happy about it. The woman clenches her fists so hard they’re shaking. Ignis and Gladio share a look.

This is getting unexpectedly dangerous.

\---

The room smells nice. That’s about as much Somnus can say for the place he’s been holed up in for the better part of a week.

He’s never spent more than a day holed up inside before, and with the window always closed, he’d asked one of the maids for some candles. She brought him some small box to plug into the wall. Apparently, he isn’t _allowed_ to have an open flame in his room. Somnus’s mood soured, but the box at least made the stuffiness less unbearable. It _almost_ smells like real flowers.

He's been told the Citadel has a garden (which seems antithetical to the rest of its architecture, but that's neither here nor there), and he'd rather visit it than smell some electronic candle, but he's too anxious to leave his room. He has no idea what to say to Regis, no idea how to apologize, if he _should_ apologize. What's worse is the man has visited him several times, knocking on the door to ask if he'd like to come down for dinner or go for a walk. He always says no, and Regis always accepts it, though Somnus knows he has to be getting impatient by now. So far, all his meals have been brought to him, and no one has tried to force him to leave, but it's only a matter of time.

Somnus puts his head in his hands. He promised Ardyn he'd try.

And then, an idea: Ignis has known Regis for much, much longer than Somnus has. He's bound to know the best way to approach him. Somnus drags himself out of bed, takes a shower to wash the stink out of his hair, and hurries out the door.

There's no one in the hallway, so he goes right up to Ignis's room. When he reaches for the handle, the door swings open.

A cleaning maid stands in the doorway, startled, before she bows. "Your Highness."

Somnus forces himself not to cringe. He's barely been here a week and he already hates the suffocating formality. "Hi. Is Ignis in?"

"Lord Scientia is not currently in residence," she says. "Is there something you require, Your Highness?"

Somnus flushes. "Um."

The maid shuffles awkwardly. "Perhaps I could take your lunch request?"

That's perfect. Somnus almost feels like smiling. "Actually, could you ask Ignis if he'd have lunch with me?"

\---

"Your Highn—I mean, Lord Scientia."

Ignis sighs, wondering what is going to interrupt his day now. Since Noctis has refused to leave his room for nearly a week, Cor had called him in for a full interview regarding his perceptions of the prince’s behavior and mental state. That pushed back his review of this year’s Leiden pepper harvest, and _that_ caused him to cancel his attendance at a lecture on Altissian culinary culture at Insomnia University, which he was actually looking forward to. He fully expects the civil servant running after him to throw some other menial task on his plate and mess up his perfectly tailored schedule even further.

Instead, he says, “Your Highness requests your presence at lunch in the royal gardens.”

Ignis raises a brow. “Well, then. Inform him I will attend him shortly.”

The servant bows. “Yes, my lord.”

Ignis makes a quick stop at his room to freshen up, then cancels his appointments for the afternoon—the prince takes priority. On his way to the gardens, he updates Regis. He hopes hearing his biological and adopted sons are getting along will improve his dour mood.

Honesty, though, he's rather concerned. To suddenly go from holing up in his room to coordinating a meal is quite the transformation. He hopes it wasn’t too overwhelming. Ignis suspects Noctis must have asked the serving staff for help; he's scarcely seen a tenth of the Citadel, and that certainly doesn't include the gardens or kitchens. Perhaps Ignis can take him on a tour when they're finished with lunch. The gardens have a wide variety of exotic plants Noctis has likely never seen before. With the crisp autumn wind rustling gently through reddening trees and the grass just starting to yellow, it's the perfect time of year to take a stroll.

Ignis finds Noctis at an elegant black gazebo he and Regis spent many days sitting under in his youth. Noctis looks… he looks…

He looks pathetic. Adorable. Adorably pathetic.

His shirt (a rumpled, gray button up plaid number Ignis would never wear) and dress pants (dark blue pinstripe tucked into dirty work boots) are horribly mismatched, his hair combed back in a style that doesn't suit him at all. His posture is suspect as well, slouching until he realizes he's supposed to sit up straight, then repeating the process. Heavy purple shadows hang under his eyes.

Ignis approaches him in the same way he would a caged coeurl; guarded, but nonthreatening. "How are you today, Somnus?"

Noctis startles. "Damn, I didn't see you. Give a guy some warming when you're gonna sneak up on him like that."

Ignis didn't think he was being particularly sneaky, but it doesn't really matter. He takes a seat. "So, what brings you out of your room today?" he asks, keeping his tone light.

Noctis rubs the back of his neck. "I wanted to talk to you about something. I asked a woman if she could get in touch with you, and next thing I knew I was surrounded by people asking what I wanted to eat and where. It's weird that everyone just drops whatever they're doing for me. Sorry if I interrupted your day."

Ignis smiles sympathetically. They've really got to get Noctis a cell phone. "Not at all. I'm glad to have the chance to speak to you again."

Serving staff flock the gazebo out of nowhere, carrying a spread of sandwiches and fruit. Noctis says thank you to each server individually. Ignis notices the way the younger servers orbit him. It seems he already has a reputation among the domestic staff, but whether it's from kindness or physical attraction, Ignis can’t tell.

Glasses are placed on the table and filled with ice, followed by water. As a server is about to take away the pitcher, she stumbles over the uneven floor boards, and a few stray drops fall on Noctis's pants.

In any other circumstances, this would be a disaster. Spilling drink on royalty calls for a serious reprimand, potentially even a firing. Ignis leans back in his chair, waiting to see what Noctis will do.

"Oh," he says, blinking down at the water stains.

"I'm so sorry, Your Highness!" the server squeaks. "I'll ask my supervisor to take the cost for replacing your trousers out of my paycheck."

"Wait, what? No!" Noctis says.

The server bows. "Forgive me. I'll tend my resignation immediately—!"

"No, don't do that! Please calm down." Noctis takes the woman's arm and coaxes her back up. "It's just water, no big deal. It'll dry."

It won't dry. The material is too delicate; the pants are, by high society standards, ruined.

The server bites her lip. "But…"

"Seriously, it's chill. Thanks for bringing us lunch," Noctis says sincerely.

As the staff leaves, Ignis hears the distinctive chatter of excited, lovestruck girls trailing behind them. Noctis stares at his lap, blushing. It's a good thing, Ignis supposes, for Noctis to have a positive reputation among the domestic staff. Unfortunately, the military’s opinion has only deteriorated over the past week, and polarization between the staff and military is a recipe for trouble.

They've got to work on Noctis's PR, and as his not-yet-official advisor, Ignis is the man for the job.

He gives Noctis a few minutes to work on his sandwich and calm down from the water pitcher fiasco before he makes small talk. "So, how did your meeting with Regis go?"

Noctis winces. "It… wasn't awful."

Ignis frowns. "I see."

"Shit. That's what I wanted to talk to you about, but I don't know how to start." Noctis shoves an entire handful of grapes into his mouth and miraculously avoids choking. His hands are no doubt going to be a sticky mess by the end of the meal. "Can we talk about something else for a bit?"

"Alright," Ignis says. "Did Regis happen to explain my position to you?"

"No, but you're the prince, right?"

"Not exactly. I'm still _a_ prince, but not as highly ranked as you. I shan't ascend the throne." There's no change in Noctis's expression; he likely hasn't had time to fully appreciate what being crown prince means for his future. Ignis will have to fix that, and fast. "Instead, Regis has asked me to remain at your side as a close advisor. My duty will be to guide you through difficult decisions and help you shape policy."

"So you're like a puppet master?" Noctis asks, folding his arms.

Ignis is startled enough to choke on his food. "No, certainly not. What gave you that idea?"

"Nothing in particular," Noctis says.

"Right," Ignis says, not believing him at all. "As your advisor, I feel I should inform you that the glaive is quite shaken by the events of a week ago. It would be in your best interest to show public gratitude to the soldiers who died that day."

Noctis practically growls. The air zings with the unmistakable energy of magic. "No. They're not getting _anything_ from me."

Ignis breathes deeply. He has to navigate this very, very carefully. "And why is that?"

Noctis slams his hands down on the table, shaking their glasses. His shoulders shake. "They hurt me. They tried to _kill_ Ardyn. I know they did, I could feel it."

"They were attempting to protect you, and Ardyn murdered them."

"They deserved it! Ardyn didn't do anything wrong!" Noctis shouts.

The gardens go silent. The few bugs still out in late autumn flee at the noise. A slight breeze blows through the gazebo. Ignis holds Noctis's gaze steadily.

The prince averts his eyes and sits back down. “Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.”

"I understand your position. Family is important to you. It's important to me as well," Ignis says slowly. "Those glaives had friends and family, too."

Noctis stares at his feet.

"It's not much," Ignis pushes. "All you have to do is lay a bouquet at the memorial, show respect for the dead. It'll only take a few minutes. I'll handle the rest."

Noctis glances up at him from behind his bangs. Ignis is sure he isn’t imagining the electricity sparking in his irises. "Fine. But it's their fault they died, not Ardyn's."

The rest of their lunch sits untouched as Ignis counts the seconds in his head. He has to go back to Cor after this and update his report. At no point in his intake interviews did Noctis mention having magic, and in such an emotionally volatile state, he could be a danger to himself and the people around him. Ignis doesn’t want to think of him as a threat, but they have to act accordingly. They need insurance, or no one in the Citadel will be safe. Not even Regis.

"What did you wish to speak about?" Ignis finally says. His voice is strained.

Noctis looks like a frightened child again. Ignis observes him sharply as he squirms in his seat.

"Right," he says. "Did the King tell you what I said to him?"

\---

The chocobos chirp and jump about as Ardyn fills their feeding trough. The sun has already reached the highest point in the sky, signalling the arrival of noon. Ardyn has been trying to wake up earlier to feed the animals, but it’s just so hard. Since Noctis left, he’s been struggling stay awake during the day. All he wants is to lie down and breathe until the sun sets and he can go outside without the light exposing the scourge under his skin. He could just take his usual precautions and wear a sun hat and gloves to cover his skin, but what’s the point? He’s all alone here. There’s no one around to look decent for.

Still, Noctis would probably be upset if he knew Ardyn was wallowing about in his own filth, so he tries to cover the worst abscesses with bandages.

Now that the farm animals are taken care of, Ardyn goes back to the house. He cuts a few slabs of meat into strips and mixes them with mashed vegetables for the dogs. They sit at his feet, wagging their tails. They’re still confused by the new schedule, receiving breakfast in the afternoon and dinner at midnight, but aside from some increased whining they haven’t shown any resentment. That’s the reason Ardyn likes animals so much; they’re simple, trusting, loving. They don’t care about who you are or what you’ve done.

In that way, they’re like children.

Ardyn sets the plates down for the dogs to eat and goes back outside.

He stares at the sun until scourge bubbles up out of his eyes and draws lines down his face. His hands tremble. The memories of the glaives he murdered throb behind his eyes, demanding his attention; Ardyn shivers. He hates and loves the rush, hates the moments where he forgets himself and drowns in feelings that aren’t his, loves the power in tainting souls and forcing his will over their’s. As the high takes hold, Ardyn clamps his hands over his mouth, trying to keep himself from calling out for Noctis.

_ He’s not here anymore, you fool, _ he berates himself.  _ You sent him away. _

The sky goes dark, or maybe that’s Ardyn’s vision; he thinks he’s bleeding from his nails scratching his cheeks. He can’t sink back into that place, not again, not when he’s spent so long pretending to be a good person. He owes it to Noctis to remain himself, even if his baby brother never returns to this place.

At the edge of the forest, in the shadows, his daemons watch him and laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live!!
> 
> happy holidays everyone :D hope u enjoyed the angst fest


	10. Chapter 10

Sunlight beats down on the park as Somnus lays his bouquet in front of the monument. It’s black marble inscribed with gold, the names of fallen Kingsglaive appearing as molten lava flowing through divets in the rock. Two dozen inscriptions at eye level are the ones Ardyn killed, according to Ignis. They're the ones the flowers are for.

The dark color of the stone stores heat, so the space around it is a furnace. Somnus resists the urge to wipe away the sweat on his forehead and under his arms. He’s trapped in a stiff suit Ignis chose for him that morning, black and not at all tailored for the weather; his hair is slicked back with some sort of uncomfortable gel; and only meters away a crowd of reporters is being kept at bay by armed security guards.

As Ignis instructed, Somnus drops to a knee and places his fist over his heart, bowing his head. The throng of noise from the crowd makes his ears hurt. Worse are the flashes of light from dozens of cameras as picture after picture is taken. Ignis had told him to expect this, since it _is_ his first excursion outside the Citadel, but he somehow hadn't realized how invasive it would be.

At least they haven't travelled far. Memorial Park, which contains several sculptures and memorials dedicated to fallen Lucian soldiers and civilians, is only a short drive away from the Citadel and still behind the Crownsguard’s line of defense. They'd gotten a brief look at the wider city on the drive over, and Somnus was despondent to see the sun washes out much of its color, so it blurs into one continuous silver streak against the dull sky. He hates how lifeless it is. Even the trees and bushes in the park are closely trimmed, planted in small, mulched gardens, surrounded by close cropped grass. Just a few large oaks would provide some shade for the memorials, but Somnus figures it must be designed like this for a reason. Maybe the stone would be less shiny without the sun reflecting off it. Or maybe, since it's effectively a cemetery, the planners didn't want it to be pleasant.

Somnus would hate for his and Ardyn's graves to look like this, so he can't imagine the glaive like it either.

After he’s kneeled for what he deems an acceptable period of time, he rises. Ignis brushes by his side with his own offering of flowers; given the sudden tittering of the crowd, it's probable they’ve captured him jerking away from his 'brother' on camera.

“Composure, Somnus,” Ignis chides.

“I know, I know.” Somnus risks a glance at the crowd. Even ordinary Insomnians dress to the nines, covered in jewelry and bright, wrinkleless clothing. It's far removed from the relaxed style of Lestallum, and even farther from the rural farmlands he calls home. “Is it always like this?”

“Hardly. The press typically keep their distance from the royal family, but with your return, they’ve been swept up in a flurry as of late.”

“Wonderful,” Somnus mutters. “And, uh, was what happened this morning normal, too?”

On Ignis's advice, Somnus had tried to speak to Regis before breakfast. He'd found only an empty suite, decorated in the same ornate manner as the one he's staying in. One prominent difference was a large portrait hanging on the wall above the fireplace. It was of a young man with a black beard, a dark-haired, blue-eyed woman, and a baby with fat cheeks and a toothless smile.

Somnus is pretty sure he knows who those people are, and he really, really didn't want to think about it. So he ran.

Cor was waiting for him in the corridor just outside. He was told, very pointedly, that His Majesty was already busy with his duties for the day, and his schedule was completely filled. Somnus isn’t proud to admit how startled he was by Cor’s sudden appearance. He’s started to feel like eyes are on him at all times, even when he’s alone. The stalwart Marshal’s sudden apparition out of nowhere hadn’t helped abate his paranoia.

Ignis steps away from the memorial, his hands elegantly clasped in front of his chest. “Regis is very busy. National politics are complicated at the best of times, and positively hellish at the moment.”

"Because of me?"

"Your wisdom is unmatched." The sarcasm in Ignis's voice is perfectly friendly. "Worry not. Regis assured me we will eat dinner together sometime this week.

It annoys Somnus how Ignis can still be nice after everything. As if he's unbothered by it, while Somnus is anything but. The childish urge to hurt has his response come out as viper's fangs. “As a family?”

Ignis gives him pause. “If you like.”

He wouldn’t. But saying so won't get him anywhere.

They still have to stand here for a while longer, ‘reflecting’ on the ‘loss’ of these brave soldiers, so Somnus inspects the crowd for lack of anything better to do. Even though they’re a fair distance away, he doesn't like the noise or the sensation of eyes on him. It reminds him of Lestallum, of the tightness in his throat at being surrounded by swarms of sweating, breathing, speaking _people._ Insomnia is much larger, the largest city in the country, and the thought of walking through its streets has him clamming up. No matter how long he stays here, he’ll never be comfortable in such an artificial, populated environment.

As much as he hates to admit it, he's eager to head back to the Citadel. The Royal Gardens, meticulously cultivated as they are, are more similar to his woods than this place.

"Is there anything else on the ‘royal schedule’ today?" Somnus asks, hoping Ignis will say no so he can spend the rest of his day napping under a tree.

"Not today," Ignis says. “But you have a therapy appointment scheduled for tomorrow."

Somnus frowns. "What's—?"

A shout draws his attention away. There's a commotion among the reporters, punctuated by two guards converging on one spot. Somnus tenses, ready to bolt if the line of defense breaks. Sensing his unease, or perhaps simply defaulting to standard protocol, Ignis turns him back towards the car.

And that’s when Somnus hears a familiar voice, and sees a familiar poof of blonde hair in the crowd.

He pivots on his heel and makes a run for it, shaking off Ignis’s hand. The reporters titter and shout at him as he comes near. Somnus ignores them.

“See? I told you I’m friends with the prince!” Prompto says as Somnus grabs his arm and tugs him past the velvet ropes. There’s a camera clutched between his hands. “Dude, why didn’t you tell me you’re the prince?”

Several shouts drown out any answer he can give. The guards struggle to force back the cameras and microphones; hands stretch out and snatch at Somnus’s shirt sleeve. His throat tightens up.

Ignis appears beside him and Prompto, peering down at them over his glasses. “Shall we return to the car, Your Highness?”

He doesn’t wait for Somnus to answer, instead opting to grab his and Prompto’s arms and drag them away like naughty children. For the second time in recent memory, Somnus is forced into the backseat of a car, and Prompto is pushed in after him. Somnus rubs at his arm angrily as Ignis shuts the door and goes around to the other side. Throughout it all, Prompto stares at them wide-eyed, his camera still clutched in his hands.

“So, um, Your Highness...es?” He bows his head ever so slightly.

“Don’t call me that,” Somnus says.

“But you’re, like, _the_ prince, right?”

“I guess.”

“He is the prince, which means you should address him as he asks, without regard to propriety,” Ignis says coolly. “Speaking of which, who are you?”

Prompto glances at Somnus. “Uh.”

It’s been months since he’s seen Prompto, and they only met once, but Somnus remembers him well. He was the first outsider Somnus met in years, his first friend other than his big brother, and the first, and possibly still only, person who hadn’t lied to him. Somnus has come to value honesty recently, so as far as he’s concerned, Prompto is one of the most stand up people he’s ever meant. “He’s my friend.”

Prompto beams. “We met when I was in the country taking pics for a job! Somnus—err, _Noctis_ totally saved me.”

Ignis’s eyes fall to his camera. His voice takes on an even colder tone. “Are you here to take ‘pics’ of the crown prince?”

"Not really? Like, I'm technically here on a job, but I really just wanted to see Noctis. Hard to get into the city without a work permit and all that."

Somnus remembers reading about that in one of the endless books he was given about Lucis; the Crown City is guarded and closed off, reserved only for the country’s most privileged citizens. And its refugee soldiers.

"If you wanted to speak with the crown prince, you should have put in an official request with the public relations office," Ignis says. "It is not appropriate for royalty to speak so openly with common folk in public."

Prompto deflates , and Somnus feels like he’s been slapping in the face. "'Common folk'? The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you are a prince, and a certain level of decorum is expected of you," Ignis says.

"If I'm the prince, _you_ should listen to what I say and stop insulting my friends!" Somnus snaps.

He can plainly see Ignis is holding in a scathing comeback. Somnus is more than a bit troubled by the fact that he has now most certainly alienated his only ally in this place, especially since he’s been _trying_ to behave, but before he can apologize, something odd happens. Instead of challenging him, Ignis presses his lips together and takes out his tablet, tapping away emphatically on the screen. Somnus blinks at him, not sure what he did to warrant such a submissive reaction.

Prompto grins nervously. "Um. Did I do something wrong?"

"Nah, you’re good," Somnus says. Ignis's tapping grows even more furious, but he doesn't say anything.

As they settle down for the ride back to the Citadel, Prompto excitedly shows Somnus the recent photos on his camera while Ignis ignores both of them. Between Prompto’s ramblings and the tap-tap-tap of Ignis’s nails on his tablet screen, Somnus starts piecing things together in his mind. Ever since he came here, people have treated him like a god on earth, always showing him deference and respect no matter how he behaved. Even Ignis said Somnus has a higher rank than him; the only person in the country who outranks him is Regis. And, with a stab of guilt, Somnus recalls how accommodating he was.

It never really occurred to Somnus that he could be _intentionally_ rude and get away with it. Ardyn raised him to be polite to strangers, so even if he's sure he seems a little out of place, he hasn't _tried_ to piss anyone off. He just seems to do that naturally.

But now he can't stop thinking about how no one will say anything if he acts like an unrepentant bitch. Not even if he’s clearly unsuited for the throne.

He never planned on staying too long, but the uncertainty of how he was going to get home has been hanging over him for days. This could be the ticket; he's back not only at the behest of his father, but to _take the throne of Lucis._ That requires a certain set of skills, including delicate political maneuvering and social poise he doesn't have.

(He _does_ have the military knowledge, and technical understanding of how government works, and a wealth of knowledge on Lucis's foreign and domestic affairs, but he'd rather not think of how Ardyn was raising him to be king all along. Not now.)

If they realize how inept he is… there's always the chance they'll reinstate Ignis as the heir and send him back. Then he and Ardyn have a free ticket out of here.

Somnus smirks. It’s time for him to become the brattiest prince in Lucian history.

\---

It’s nearly 10 at night, and Ignis is exhausted.

He’d had to hurry and finish his work after dinner; Noctis had insisted on allowing Prompto to stay in the Citadel as long as possible, so Ignis was forced to play tour guide and babysitter. The one good thing to come of Prompto's endless fascination and awe was that it inspired Noctis to actually explore his new home. Ignis knows Regis will be happy to hear his son is finally settling down.

He’ll also be happy to hear the prince is growing into his royal responsibilities. With his shyness around the servants and hesitation to exercise his authority, Ignis figured he’d be stuck issuing orders for him for the rest of their lives. Today, he’d been almost commanding, perfectly clear about what he wanted and when. It was largely demanding snacks for him and Prompto and pushing guards aside when they tried to stop him from going into restricted areas, but it’s something at least.

Ignis knows it’s technically a net positive the future king of Lucis is adapting to authority, but he’s unnerved. Ever since the disaster at the farm he hadn’t known what to expect from Noctis, but he thought he’d done a pretty good job of reading him so far. Now he can’t fathom what is driving Noctis’s sudden change in behavior. He has no idea what’s going on in his head. And that’s dangerous, considering they still don’t know the extent of what Ardyn did to him. The notes they’ll get from his therapist will help, but that relies on Noctis spilling his guts, and Ignis isn’t sure he’ll do that right away.

Regis trusts Noctis, enough that he doesn’t see the darker possibilities; this could all be part of a plan Izunia is masterminding, or Noctis could have personality issues more severe than it appears on the surface.

And besides _all_ of that, which is quite a lot already, Noctis doesn’t seem to care much for his advice. He’d gone along with the plan to deliver flowers to the memorial, but everything else Ignis suggested today was shot down or ignored. What’s the point of an advisor who isn’t listened to by his charge? His place in the Citadel, and in Regis’s heart, is slowly being eroded by Noctis’s presence. He knows that. But he thought he’d be able to cling onto something at least. Now it’s as if he’s hanging over a precipice, and Noctis is prying his fingers off one by one.

No matter how much Noctis screams and kicks, Regis will forgive him. That’s not a liberty Ignis has.

If Regis enables Noctis too much, then…

Voices. They’re coming from up ahead, past a corner Ignis has yet to reach. The tones are hushed, and in the darkness of twilight, that rings suspicious. Ignis instinctively slips into the shadow of an open doorway, half to listen in, half to avoid being sucked into whatever conversation is going on only a few yards ahead.

As the figures approach—two men, from what Ignis can tell—their voices grow clearer, more distinct, and Ignis’s eyes narrow with each word he hears.

“Are you sure we should be talking about this here?”

“Why not? Not like anyone’s around to hear. ‘Sides, everyone hates that damn brat.”

“I dunno, the staff seem to like him.”

“They’re just prissy city kids used to a cushy life. They've got no perspective."

Ignis backs up further into the shadows as the two men pass the doorway, ambling on at a leisurely pace. They're wearing Kingsglaive garb, and the tattoos on their face clearly mark them as Galahdian, though Ignis can't make out the majority of their features in the dark.

"The meeting is still on for this weekend, right? Same place, same time?"

"Sure is. We've got a lot to talk about this time 'round."

"We can't move too fast. Remember that."

"I remember. Doesn't matter to me—sooner or later, that psycho prince is gonna pay."

Their footsteps echo as they retreat, disappearing into the winding halls of the Citadel. Ignis slips out of his hiding place, flightfooted, and changes his course. The swirling thoughts that had occupied his head only moments before are gone, and training has kicked in, letting him analyze the situation and come to the only logical conclusion; this issue is too large to handle on his own, and too important to keep to himself.

No matter how much easier things would be if Noctis disappeared, he can't let that happen to Regis… or Noctis, really, because deep down Ignis knows none of this is his fault.

The halls surrounding the gym, training grounds, and officer's quarters are deserted. Pale moonlight reflects off the flawlessly polished tile. The heels of Ignis's dress shoes click as he walks. Only one office has light streaming out from under the door, a molten yellow glow that drives away the characteristic blue monotone of the Citadel at night.

He knocks at Cor's door swiftly and strongly, then opens it when he hears a grunt from within.

Cor the Immortal should probably be called Cor the Sleepless, because Ignis has never seen him off duty. He glances up with an arched brow and raises his coffee mug to his lips. "Want a cup?"

"Yes, thank you," Ignis says, pouring himself a healthy dose of caffeine from the half full pot on the corner table. "Forgive me for interrupting your work at such a late hour, but the situation requires urgent attention."

"What is it?" This is what Ignis likes about soldiers; they're straight, to the point, not like politicians who always think they're more subtle and clever than they actually are.

"I just overheard a rather concerning discussion between two glaive." Ignis sits in the chair across from Cor's desk. The mug burns his palms. "They seemed to be discussing Prince Noctis, and not in a flattering light."

Cor listens as he recites the conversation, then downs the rest of his coffee. "I've noticed dissonance in the glaive, but I left it to Ulric to deal with. Sounds like more than just mindless chatter, though. It might be time for the Crownsguard to get involved."

"Are you certain that's wise? The glaive are powerful, and they've never meshed well with the guard."

"That's not their fault. They receive different training. I told Regis years ago we needed to combine both sections of the military and unify their psychological training." Cor sets down his mug, opting to rub his chin instead. "We'll have to speak with Ulric and proceed carefully. I'll inform His Majesty."

"About that," Ignis says. "Must we inform Regis just yet? He still isn't sleeping well, and Noctis's behavior has caused him to become unbalanced, shall we say."

"I don't think you're giving him enough credit," Cor says. "But we can at least wait until morning. In the meantime, I'll call Nyx in to discuss the glaive, and you contact Gladio and tell him to get his shit together."

Ignis believes he knows where this is going. "Pardon?"

"He's stalled long enough. It's time for him to do his duty and become Noctis's shield."

\---

Ignis is thankful for Cor's professionalism. Anyone else would have tried to console Ignis over losing the shield he has known since childhood, and he doesn’t fancy being belittled anymore today.

He texts Gladio on his way back to the royal apartments, not expecting a reply. Gladio likes to sleep early. He only stays up if he suspects Ignis is depriving himself of sleep again. The glow of his phone hurts his eyes, and he slips it into his pocket with a sigh.

He inspects the guards patrolling the halls and checkpoints with a critical eye. They're all Crownsguard, and perform their duties with impeccable care. Cor would accept nothing less. Ignis knows they'll relax slightly and start murmuring amongst themselves again once he passes, and though he himself values duty above all else, he can't begrudge them for it.

He only hopes they won't be distracted if Noctis is put in danger.

There's no light shining under the doors of either Regis or Noctis's rooms. Ignis stops by them briefly to listen in; the bed chambers are too far into the apartments for him to hear snoring or breathing, but the lack of commotion is, at least, an indication that nothing is horribly wrong.

His own rooms feel less familiar tonight. Standing at the foot of his bed, finally dressed in his nightclothes with his glasses set aside, he feels the childish desire to go to Regis's room and sleep on the couch—not to reassure his guardian but instead to reassure himself. He squashes it down and climbs into bed, disappointed in himself.

Even now, with his parents dead and buried for over a decade, he still aches for childhood without concept of grief or pain.

As if such a thing could last forever.

\---

Somnus wishes his childhood could have lasted forever.

He misses it most before sunrise and after sunset. He misses cold mornings spent outside gathering eggs, wearing work boots several sizes too big for his feet. He misses playing with the chocobos and the smell of coming rain. He misses Ardyn most of all, misses watching him sew, making him laugh, hearing him shout. Even bad memories have been colored rosey by time, so the fire and Lestallum and Ardyn’s lies don’t sting as bad as they used to.

His mornings now are cold and dull, illuminated by artificial light and a glimpse of sun though black curtains. Instead of Ardyn, he faces the day alongside a replacement brother he doesn't need and a burly, unpleasant looking guy with feather tattoos wrapping around his arms.

He just _knows_ he isn't going to like this.

"This is Gladiolus Amicitia," Ignis says. "He has a proposal for you."

Gladiolus kneels in front of Somnus, and for a distressingly long moment he thinks the guy's about to propose. "Your Highness, please allow me the honor of being your shield."

So that’s all it is. Somnus sighs in relief. "No thanks."

Gladiolus stares up at him. "Excuse me?"

"Somnus," Ignis hisses.

"I said no thanks. I don't need a shield." He shrugs. "Sorry."

Gladiolus stands. He towers over Somnus. "That's not how this works."

"If I don't get a choice, why'd you bother asking me," Somnus mutters, crossing his arms.

"Somnus, I'm afraid you don't understand," Ignis says. "What he means by 'shield' is—"

"'A guard and companion of the Amicitia family, who protects their royal charge even in the face of death.'" Somnus holds Gladiolus's gaze, staring him down as he puffs out his chest in an effort to look intimidating. "I appreciate the effort and all, but I can take care of myself."

Gladio's eyes narrow. "My family has upheld this duty for two thousand years. I'm not going to be the one to break that tradition."

And then, thunder. A light rain has been falling since Somnus woke up, thrumming against the window in gentle waves, but the storm has worsened; dark clouds loom overhead while flashes of lightning illuminate the space in between with purple light.

"This is for your own protection, Somnus," Ignis says. "Though I certainly understand your hesitation. Shall we discuss things over breakfast?"

Breakfast _does_ sound good, especially since he wanted to ask the staff to bring him foreign food he hasn’t tried before—but as tempting as it is, he's got something else in mind. This stupid 'meeting' has given him something to prove, and he knows exactly how to do it.

Cheers to the plan.

"Hey Ignis, can you call Prompto for me?"

In the reflection of the window, he sees Ignis readjusting his glasses. "As you wish. What would you like me to tell him?"

Somnus smirks. "That he should come over in the next five minutes if he wants to see something cool."

It’s more like twenty minutes, but by the time Prompto comes over, Somnus has ordered the training grounds be vacated of people, rebuffed Ignis’s multiple attempts to scold him, and had a dozen practice dummies put out. Upon his declaration that he intended to perform magic and no one was going to stop him, a terrified looking cadet pointed him in the direction of a storage room where several magic crystals of each type are held, filled to the brim with elemental energy.

Cor joins him as he absorbs an alarming amount of electricity into his soul. “Your Highness, you have to calm down.”

“Oh, do I?” Somnus snarks. “I think I’m plenty calm already.”

“Magic is a highly advanced technical skill. You’ll need to be tested extensively before you can perform it inside.”

When Somnus’s best death glare does nothing to the hardened Marshal, he shrugs and stands, practically shaking with power.

“Try to stop me, then.”

He doesn't.

Somnus finds the training halls much as he left them, with most of its occupants either evacuated or gathered on the bleachers to watch at a safe distance. Ignis and Gladiolus are arguing from the looks of it, and Prompto is awkwardly standing near the door, trying his best to look inconspicuous. Somnus waves at him. He waves back.

"'Kay," he says to himself. "Let's warm up with something cold."

His ice magic roars to life like a lion, instantly covering the ground around him with shards of jagged ice. The air becomes heavy with water vapor. Noctis aims several ice shards at one of the training dummies, destroying it in a flurry. Water comes next, naturally mixing with the ice and spreading it further along the ground until Somnus directs it up to hit another dummy, carrying it all the way up to the ceiling in a waterspout of icy mush.

"Dude, _cool!"_ Prompto shouts.

"Noctis, stop!" Ignis screams.

Somnus can't possibly stop now. He's still got two more elements to go through.

Ardyn trained him too thoroughly for him to be "bad" at any type of magic, but fire is his worst, so he opts for that next while he still has the energy. Clouds of smoke billow out into the room as he creates a firestorm that obliterates five dummies at once. When he lowers his arms, sweat starting to bead on his neck, he can hear cheering from the bleachers.

Just one more to go. Electricity builds up and spills out of his fingers, dispersing through the air as sparkles of yellow light. Somnus closes his eyes. He can picture it clearly; his fields, awash with twilight, peaceful and quiet and totally, utterly safe. Their farmstead only a short distance away. The treeline. The mountains.

His chest hurts. Somnus destroys the remaining dummies with lightning strikes, and turns to face his adoring crowd. Prompto is still near the far wall, cheering. Ignis is pissed, while Gladiolus looks impressed. Cor tells the trainees to quiet down and leave, since _obviously_ they won’t be able to use the grounds until _someone_ cleans up.

Somnus drops to his knees. His soul aches where the magic burned it.

Instead of smug or angry or upset, he just feels hollow.

\---

Regis gets the news while he’s in the middle of a conversation. Cor texts Clarus, who leans in and whispers the news in his ear. He immediately adjourns the meeting and hurries out of the room, leaving the group of noblemen tittering and huffing amongst themselves.

His knee is straining, but it matters not as he makes his way to the training grounds. Clarus marches after him, spouting some half-hearted plea for him to turn around, that there’s no need for him to be there. It’s only out of concern; he and Cor are both worried if Noctis sees Regis again, he’ll get upset, and that will only be bad for both of them.

No, no. Not Noctis.

_Somnus._

That’s the name, ironic as it is, that his son prefers. It hurts him to not use the name he and Aulea chose together, but it’s Somnus’s name, and Somnus’s choice. Regis has already been selfish enough in spiriting him away to Insomnia in such a hurried and violent way. He’s been told a million times by now he isn’t to blame, that they couldn’t have known Somnus’s life wasn’t in mortal danger. That they could have afforded to take things slowly.

It’s too late for regrets or wishful thinking; this is where his decisions have led him. His son is a grown man. If he wishes to spite Regis and curse him and use the name given to him by a false king, then Regis will let him.

They arrive at the training grounds as Somnus scorches the floor with strikes of lightning far too powerful for indoor use. Regis takes in the situation carefully; the Crownsguard trainees clearly enjoyed the show, as did Gladiolus and Somnus’s photographer friend. Ignis looks displeased, which Regis can’t help but find rather precious. He’s had the same look of disapproval since he was a young teenager. Cor is too busy trying to control his trainees to notice his and Clarus’s arrival.

Ignis goes to Somnus once the floor has stopped smoking and scolds him. He _also_ wraps a towel around his shoulders, so he can’t be too furious. Regis is content to stand back and watch his two sons getting along.

Nothing lasts forever, though. Ignis notices him first and turns ghostly white. Somnus then looks his way, and his blue eyes _(Aulea’s eyes)_ go wide as saucers. He looks utterly miserable. Regis’s heart sinks, but he smiles all the same.

And, though it’s small and full of hesitation, Somnus smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone! long time no update. i was suffering from writer's block for a solid month, but now my motivation is back. yay!  
> as an inconsequential note, i have removed the names of the chapters and just left them numbered. originally my plan was for this fic to have a prologue and five chapters, titled (in latin) dawn, noon, evening, twilight, and night. it has... obviously expanded beyond that. so i just decided to axe the chapter titles altogether lol  
> i hope you enjoy this chapter, see you next time :)


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